#I hope I keep writing this solely so Chop Top can come home and do horrible dangerous stunts with his wheelchair-using brother.

[weirdviolence]

Rehabilitation of Hounds, part 2

[read part 1 here]

(Content warnings: swearing, implied physical abuse, mentions of murder and corpses, potentially extremely light self harm - Nubbins digs his fingernails into his palm 'til he bleeds.)

Bubba began their morning as quietly as possible. Drayton and Nubbins needed rest, and they'd hate to deprieve them of it. Breakfast was quick, cereal eaten in a hurry. They then tidied up the bathroom, fixing everything they'd knocked askew. The room couldn't be called 'nice' by the end of their re-arranging, it seemed to be in perpetual need of a good scrub, but it was better. Stopping by their bedroom, they grabbed a sun hat. A woven and tattered thing that fit comfortably over their curls.

Outside, the world was calm. It would be a pleasant day, if only there was more cloud cover or trees. Just a few seconds outside of the house's acommodating shadow and Bubba felt beads of sweat forming on the back of their neck. They rubbed the collar of their shirt against their skin, grunting in anticipatory annoyance. Heat wouldn't stop them from doing their chores, but that didn't mean they had to like it.

They took their time walking to the generator. No point in rushing; from the looks of it, it was running fine. They passed the dozen or so vehicles taken from the family's meat, pausing to offhandedly wonder how Drayton would fit a van in.

Maybe he'd take one of them down to the junkyard, Bubba thought. That'd be nice. Last time he had to get rid of a car, he made a bit of money off it, enough that he came home with gifts. More film for Nubbins' camera, a new dress for Bubba, a discounted record for Bobby, all on top of a better meal than usual. They were tempted to check the interiors for personal effects, a task that was either fun or tedious depending on the person's prior life, in the hopes it might encourage Drayton to dispose of one in order to make room. (Though they ultimately decided against it; the quicker things were done, the quicker they'd be out of this heat.)

The generator was, as expected, running fine. Next, the fences needed checked. Those who wandered in(or tried, in vain, to get out) had a tendency to leave a mess, broken posts or tears in the barbed wire. Once, Bubba found an entire body tangled up in wire, cooking in the unforgiving sun. By that point, the meat was simply too spoiled to risk eating. It was a terrible waste, but at least Nubbins made use of the bones.

No grim scene awaited them today. Just rusted wire, graced by the odd wasp. They made a note of that, reminding themself to check for nests in the future. Overall, it was an uneventful morning, which suited Bubba perfectly fine. No ornery critters hid in the unused sty, no police sirens could be heard, no headstrong teens were looking to find out what became of their friends. It was a peaceful morning that slowly turned into a quiet afternoon.

Bubba opened the front door softly, wincing as a shard of wood fell to the floor. Drayton's outburst before dinner wouldn't be the last they heard of their carelessness, they felt sure of that. Pausing in the doorway, they listened. For Drayton's angry voice, for Nubbins' manic laughter, anything. It was silent, and, so, they continued with the same gentleness they entered with, hoping not to wake their weary brothers. The first thing they did was get a glass of water, cringing behind their mask at every creak from the cabinets and squeak from the sink.

Drayton was still asleep when Nubbins woke. He'd been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a few hours, his admittedly underfed body working overtime just to keep him alive and finding that job decidedly easier when he was sleeping. When he managed to open his bleary eyes, a mundane scene floated in front of him, indistinct like a channel they couldn't quite tune in to, distorted images wading through static. Drayton, passed out on a chair, while Nubbins lay on his back.

In his mind, mingling present and past, a ten-year-old Bobby jumped on Drayton's lap, causing enough chaos to get Nubbins up and about, too. The world was dark, the television playing in the background. It was a special occasion, letting them stay up late, or maybe they'd snuck in after Drayton fell asleep, changing whatever news channel he'd been watching to something more exciting. His hair was short, the world was big, and the Nubbins that lay delirious on the couch did not yet exist. Not until the soft clinks of glass and silverware beckoned him further into the waking world.

He wasn't immediately in pain. Maybe it was the residual fuzziness of sleep clouding his senses or his traumatized body still feeling aftershocks, but he felt fine. However, when he reached his arm up, intending to grab the back of the couch and pull himself to a sitting position, all those wounds Drayton had cleaned and sewn screamed out with voices like fire spreading along his back and up his arm. His ribs, too, burned, a sensation that multiplied when he burst into laughter.

It wasn't that he found the pain amusing. It wasn't enjoyable, either- well, there was a brief wave of euphoria as his body tried to cope with the utter agony, but it only left worse pain in its wake. No, he wasn't happy about this. His stomach twisted in a way that told him everything was wrong. What else could he do to get that tension out? Laughter led to much easier breathing, once it subsided.

Glancing over, he saw that Drayton remained asleep. A dark circle formed on his chest, a steady drip of drool caught by his shirt. Nubbins tried again to sit up.

He should have felt his knee bending as he dropped his leg to the floor. His other leg should have followed. Confused, he made another attempt to pull himself up, if only to get a good look at himself. This time, he was prepared for the burning. He dug his nails into his palm, deep enough that rivulets of blood appeared under his dirty fingertips. He managed to lift his body a good few inches up from the couch. A moan escaped his lips at an entirely new source of unpleasantness. It wasn't his wounds informing him how raw his flesh was but a sharp sensation near the small of his back. With a rough gasp, he dropped back down, cuts rubbing against the inside of his shirt.

"Huh? What? Hell are you laughing at, boy?"

Nubbins grinned up at Drayton, roughly wiping away the tears of pain threatening to dampen his cheeks. "What do you think you're doin'? You probably tore all them scratches 'a yours back open!" he snapped, putting a hand on the back of the couch to more effectively loom, "You trying to undo all my hard work, you ingrate?"

"Shut… Shut your mouth, cook! I'm just tryin' to sit up."

Bubba rushed in, all squeaks and clucks, immediately at Nubbins' side. Tears flowed freely beneath their mask. A few drops wet Nubbins' gaunt cheeks when Bubba grabbed his shoulders, too worried about his wounds to hug him yet eager to show their brother that they love him, that they're unbelievably grateful to see him awake, alert, alive. "Did I scare ya, Bubba?" he asked, pulling them into a hug, pain be damned.

"Help him sit up. Careful, now! Slow, got it?" Drayton barked. Bubba nodded, lifting Nubbins up off the couch before setting him back down in a sitting position. Behind their back, Drayton paced, only standing still once Bubba moved away from Nubbins. "Move your leg." Drayton demanded. Nubbins did. Or, he intended to. He'd spent his life skittering around, moving his leg should be as easy as… well, as easy as moving his leg. "Huh." he said, more amazed than concerned.

"Move-move the other one." Drayton said. Now he was worried. Drayton never used such a gentle tone, not unless he was addressing baby Bubba. "Guess I f-fell harder'n I thought." he said, a cavalier smirk on his lips, vanishing with a twitch, "Ah, who cares. I'll be, be chasin' fresh meat down in a couple days."

Drayton smacked the side of Nubbins' leg. He flinched at the raised palm, expecting hot pain on his cheek, only to feel nothing. Nubbins took his leg in his hands, squeezing it like the neck of a rabbit. Head cocked in curiosity, he lifted his leg up using his hands, letting it drop after a few seconds. "You didn't feel any'a that, did you?" Drayton asked. Nubbins glanced up, gauging his expression. His eyes were distant, brows knit, mouth covered by his hand. Nubbins looked down at the floor, shaking his head.

"Let's, let's try to get you walkin'. Can't hurt to try, right?" Drayton asked, anxious laughter paired perfectly with his forced grin, "Bubba, you stay on that side. Take his shoulder, see? Gotta make sure we can grab 'im if…" he trailed off. Nubbins slung an arm behind either sibling's neck, ready to rest his meager weight on them.

"On three. One, two…"

Drayton straightened, with Bubba following suit a half-second later. Nubbins was upright. It felt like a minor miracle. "Now, just, get your feet straight." Drayton said, staring at Nubbins' limp legs. "I can't." Nubbins replied.

"Well, try."

"I, I am tryin'!"

"Try harder, dammit! Just- shit. Fuck!"

Drayton stamped on the ground. Everything was going wrong. Terribly wrong. "Put 'im back down, Bubba." Drayton said. With Nubbins safely on the couch, Drayton kicked the chair he'd been sleeping in, sending it to the floor. Bones shot out, falling out of the strings keeping them in place. A few outright exploded on impact, little shards of bone scattering over the floorboards with soft clicks. "Hey, gettin' all those together took… weeks!" Nubbins said.

"You fucking idiot!"

He turned on his heel, facing his brother. Bubba shrank, shoulders slumping as they stepped back, hoping to avoid Drayton's ire. He only had eyes for Nubbins. Drayton gripped the back of the couch on either side of Nubbins, hoping, somewhere in his racing mind, to keep him from even thinking about running off(not that he could, could he?). "You almost died! Got that? Died! And, and now-" Drayton laughed mirthlessly, flecks of spit landing on Nubbins' face, "Now you can't walk. Might stay like that, too, who knows? I ain't a doctor, and it ain't like we can afford t'have one take a look at'cha."

Drayton stepped back, breathless from shouting. "That make it through your thick skull?" he snapped. A quiver in his voice betrayed him. With a sheeplike bleat, Bubba straightened, then rushed out of the room. Drayton couldn't muster the strength to scold them. He had to be content cursing them in his mind, for their rudeness and cowardice, leaving their newly disabled brother and poor, overworked Drayton all alone.

Consoling Drayton barely crossed Nubbins' mind. Whenever he stood like that- straight as a rod, hands balled into fists- he was practically guaranteed to lash out if approached. Neither had a chance to speak, to berate the other or offer some semblance of support. Bubba returned quickly, grinning, holding a collapsed wheelchair in their large hands. "Bubba, you genius!" Nubbins exclaimed. Bubba babbled excitedly in response, unfolding the wheelchair with some difficulty. It was an unfamiliar contraption, but they were determined to learn quickly.

"Help me get in." Nubbins requested, reaching out for Bubba. Satisfied that the chair wasn't going to collapse in on itself, they picked him up, placing him on the seat. He ran his slender fingers along the upper part of the tires, pressing his nails into the rubber treads, satisfied at both the texture and the imprints left on the dusty surface. He tugged at the armrests. Flimsy things came loose easily, but they were pushed back into place. He took the wheels in his hands, shrieking in surprise and delight when he moved himself a few inches.

It was an odd sensation, rolling, propelled by his arms. Watching the wheels closely, he moved forward a few inches, then back. And then he sent himself hurtling forward, arms moving as quick and as forcefully as they could. He missed the door by a solid two feet, hitting the wall with a metallic clatter, his chair shuddering from the impact. Bubba hurried to his side, chittering, looking him over for new injuries.

"Oh, I, I'm fine, Bubba! Didn't even feel it!"

Drayton watched them leave. He'd watched the whole scene play out, disregarded as if he were a piece of furniture(a fact that was quietly noted, fodder to be brought out during a future lecture). Still, he watched them go with a smile.

Sawyers take care of each other. It's what they're good at, and he was always proud to see he'd instilled that value in his siblings beyond helping each other chase down meat. Hearing laughter from the kitchen was a light in an otherwise dark moment. Come hell or high water, they'd look after each other. Maybe, just maybe, that'd be enough to get them through whatever trouble that girl was going to stir up.

"Watch the walls, you fudge-packers!" Drayton called out after a heavy thud, ready to join his siblings, "You're not the one who's gotta pay for repairs!"

[luveline]

no worries if not!!! but can you write one where james comes home from work and hears reader sniffing and he’s like MY BABY?!?!?!?! proper panicking thinking reader is crying and rly upset but she’s actually been chopping onions (this may or may not be self indulgent because i was chopping onions and my eyes HURT so bad and i almost chopped my finger bc i was tearing up that much) :’)

for u i hope its okay! ♡ fem!reader

James goes very quickly from tired to alert, your sniffles like a sudden flick of the switch. It's obvious that you're crying, you don't sound as if you're hiding it, little wet sniffs and breaths echoing from the kitchen. 

He kicks out of his shoes but leaves on his suit jacket in his rush, jogging down the hall and into the kitchen. As soon as you're in sight his heart is broken. You've your back to him and while you're not shaking, you're crying and cutting up little baby tomatoes. It makes him so so sad to think you'd cry and keep going anyhow. 

My girl, he thinks, stricken. 

"Baby, what's the matter?" 

You gasp and he gasps and you slam down the knife. "Fuck, Jamie," you say, laughing wetly and turning. Your face is stained with tear tracks. "You scared me." 

"Why are you crying?" he asks. 

You stare at him. He tries to take your hands and you pull away, furthering his worry. "Don't, I have-" 

"What's wrong?" 

"Jamie," you say firmly, "I'm fine." 

"You don't look-" 

"I was cutting onions." You angle your chest so he can see the chopping board. "They're from Sirius' garden. Very potent." 

"Are you joking?" 

"No," you say, with another lovely laugh. 

He ignores your hands in favour of your face, wiping the mess of tears from your cheeks and bottom lashes carefully. You've kept your work skirt and tights on but swapped your nice blouse for a pajama top, and the fabric is soft against his cheek as he hugs you. 

You stand with your hands above his shoulder, hesitant.. "James, I'm really okay." 

"This hug isn't for you, it's for me." 

"Oh. Well, let me wash my hands so I can hug you properly." 

He squeezes you very tight and then pulls away. "Why do you do this to me? I came in and I could hear you crying and I felt my heart fall out." 

You wrinkle your nose at the image and wash your hands. Freshly rinsed, you push them over his shoulders and wrap your forearm behind his head, blocking him in. He slides a misbehaved hand under your t-shirt and feels up the curves and bumps of your back greedily.

James' heart takes a little while to slow. When it does, he lets you go reluctantly and with the insistence that he be the sole handler of all evil onions. He doesn't want to see you cry again, even if they're crocodile tears.

[massivelycreepypineapple]

Not Going Anywhere

Request: I reread the "their perfect little family" it's so good and so looongggg! I was going through your fluffy fics as I need one right now very badly! And then I kept wondering if I can request a Jensen fluff one shot? I am a runner and few months ago in a marathon, somehow my last part of sole caught some infection as doc said. I had to go through the whole surgery kinda procedure where the doc literally scooped out the infection. Fun fact, if you have athlete's foot, always get it checked out. And injection in your sole is never nice, never! And I had to do this all without sedatives for reason I didn't hear coz I was busy being scared. Its hurting like hell right now. Coz of covid thing going on, I had to do this alone. Can you write where Reader is in same situation and jensen is with her through whole procedure and then Jensen taking care of her? I cannot walk right now, and sorry for my rant! I am pretty sure it's weirdest request you have received but write only if you want!

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Fem!Reader

A/N: I know you asked for fluff but my period induced angst got channeled into this and a wee bit of angsty stuff came up. 😂 I hope it’s okay and you still like it! I’m not sure if I got all the details right. So I apologise for the mistakes. And I hope you feel better soon! ❤️

Feedback is appreciated!!

Word Count: 2852

❅ ❅ ❅

Y/N and Jensen were seated in the waiting room of the hospital. Y/N had her head rested on Jensen’s shoulder nearly falling asleep as he held her hand in his while the other stroked her cheek. He rested his head on top of hers and occasionally placed kisses, comforting her as much as he could. She had developed an infection on the sole of her foot nearly 3 days ago and it was hurting a lot. She took over the counter medicines and hoped for it to go away, but 3 days later, it only got worse and she found it difficult to walk let alone run. Which was a real bummer, since she was a runner and loved every second of it.

Jensen had told her multiple times to get it checked out, but her stubbornness and her hatred for hospitals and doctors were an awful combination. But she finally relented when the pain got so unbearable that even painkillers couldn’t do their job. So here they were waiting to consult a doctor.

“Y/N Ackles?” The nurse called bringing a wheelchair over.

“Honey, wake up. It’s our turn.” Jensen nudged her gently.

She woke up mumbling, “So tired, Jay.”

“I know, baby. It’s the painkillers. You can sleep all you want after we consult.” He got up and then helped her into the wheelchair, making sure she didn’t put any pressure on her foot.

Once in the room, the nurse and Jensen helped her onto the bed. Just as she got comfortable the doctor came in and greeted them.

“Good morning you two!” He said cheerily annoying Y/N more. But she put on a smile and tried her best to be civil. The pain was getting to be too much and all she wanted was to go home to the comfort of her couch and watch a movie, cuddled up with her husband.

“So how are you doing, Y/N?” He asked.

“I’ll do much better if my damn foot didn’t hurt.” She grumbled, making him chuckle. Jensen stepped back, giving the man enough space to check her leg. He held her foot with one hand and poked around with the glove covered one. Y/N whimpered in pain. She was tired, sleepy, in pain and the smug doctor seemed to enjoy poking and prodding her injured foot. How she wanted to clock his face.

“Yup, it’s athlete’s foot alright.” He said. “This one seems to be a little worse for normal medication to have any effect. We’ll have to do a minor procedure.” He said walking behind his desk to sit and make notes on the laptop.

Y/N’s eyes widened and her head snapped to Jensen, who quickly made his way over to her. She grabbed his hand.

“W-what kind of procedure?” She asked, suddenly wide awake.

“Well, we have to scoop out the fungus.”

“What do you mean ‘scoop out’?” Asked Jensen worried. He squeezed your hand, showing you he was right there.

“Exactly that. We’ll be removing the infection. It’s a minor surgery. You’ll be here in the morning and leave by evening. It’s nothing to worry about.” He said kindly.

“Is it going to hurt?” Y/N asked with apprehension.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s going to hurt. But it won’t take very long.”

Y/N was panicking on the inside. She had a high tolerance for pain but the past few days have been absolute agony, and to do this and feel more pain was really freaking her out. Jensen could sense her uneasiness and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“Maybe you could sedate her? Put her to sleep?” Jensen asked the doc.

“That’s not possible for this procedure, the patient needs to be awake and aware of what’s happening incase something goes wrong.” He replied sympathetically.

“And what are the chances of things going wrong in this procedure?”

Jensen was even more worried now. Y/N would be doing this without any sedatives and he didn’t like it one bit. But there wasn’t another option it would seem.

“It’s a simple procedure, Mr.Ackles. There’s nothing to worry about. The lack of sedatives is a preventative measure. That’s all. As long as she’s able to feel what we’re doing, things are going well. If we sedate her she won’t be able to tell if we accidentally nicked something.”

Jensen nodded hesitantly.

“You can book an appointment for tomorrow with the nurse’s station outside. I’ll see you, Y/N, bright and early.” He smiled brightly at her.

“No offence but I’m not looking forward to seeing you bright and early.” She said with a small smile.

The doctor laughed throwing his head back, “Yeah I’m sure you’re not.” He then scribbled something in a prescription paper and handed it to her. “These are some painkillers for the night. But don’t take any before the procedure.”

“Thank you.”

The nurse who wheeled her in was back and helped her into the wheelchair once more. Jensen went to pay the fee and get the medicine, as well as book an appointment as the doctor suggested. After everything was done they were back in the car heading home. Y/N was quietly looking out the window throughout the ride worrying about what was to come. She felt Jensen grab her hand and squeeze it. She looked at him and tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy. She was beyond exhausted and couldn’t wait to get home. There was a lump in her throat and tear welled up in her eyes, but she did her best to keep it from falling.

“Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?” He asked softly.

“Please, not now.” She said, voice cracking a little.

“Okay, honey” He said not letting go of her hand. The car ride back home was filled with tensed silence.

_______________

30 minutes later they reached home. Jensen parked the car and got out, quickly making his way to Y/N’s side. He carried her inside the house and took her up the stairs to their bedroom. He placed her on the bed and went to her closet and pulled out comfy sweat pants and one of his t-shirts. He helped her take off her clothes and put the new ones on. Once he changed too he sat facing her on the bed and cupped her cheek with one hand.

Y/N leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. A single tear escaped only to be quickly wiped away by his thumb.

“I don’t know why I’m so sad and so overwhelmed.” She whispered. “It’s so stupid. It’s a minor surgery, it won’t take long. I don’t know why I’m being so emotional.”

“It’s not stupid, baby. You’ve been in a lot of pain these past few days. You can barely walk, and you’ll never admit it, but I know you and I know that you’re upset that you can’t run. It’s getting to you. But you have to remember that it’s not permanent. You’re going to recover fully, it’ll just take a while, that’s all.”

Y/N was crying. Jensen knew her so well. He could read her like a damn book and she was so grateful for him. He never judged. All he did was support her and love her.

“I don’t want to burden you, Jay! You just got back from Vancouver. You’re on a break and this had to happen. I’m so so sorry!”

“Hey, come here.” He shifted so that he was leaning against the headboard with her on her lap. He made sure he didn’t hurt her foot. “It’s not your fault, Y/N. Not your fault at all okay? I hate to see you in so much pain, I wish it didn’t happen either, but not because I think it’s a burden. But because my baby is in pain. I don’t care how I spend time with you as long as I get you. You hear me, honey?”

She nodded against his chest. For some reason she couldn’t stop crying.

“It’s okay. Just let it out. I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered hugging her tightly. Eventually Y/N calmed down and fell asleep only waking up for dinner and painkiller. They went back to sleep soon after.

_______________

The next day they were at the hospital. Y/N was taken to the OR for the procedure. Since it was a minor one and she’d be awake through it, they allowed Jensen to be in with her to keep her calm and distracted. She was so grateful for that. She didn’t think she could’ve done it alone.

She was seated on the bed with Jensen by her head. The doctor came in followed by the nurse who was holding an injection. Y/N was looking at it with fear in her eyes, Jensen noticed her and made her look at him.

“Just focus on me ok? I’m right here.” He smiled at her.

Y/N flinched when the cold cotton swab was pressed to her infected area. It burned like crazy. She squeezed Jensen’s hand tightly, who kept whispering encouraging words. Then the doctor slowly pushed the injection in, making her cry out in pain. Jensen pressed her head into his shoulder. She was clutching his shirt really tightly almost ripping it off.

Jensen through it all tried his best to keep calm. It was killing him to see this happen to his wife. He worried about her when she cut herself while chopping vegetables or fixing something. This was a whole knew level of worry that he didn’t know how to handle. He could feel his shirt getting wet as Y/N cried into him.

“It’s over see? It’ll be a lot easier from now.” Said the doctor.

Y/N didn’t reply. She wanted this torture to end. The entire hour flew by with Y/N gritting her teeth in pain and Jensen doing his best to distract her. He would tell her funny stories which she already knew and he would talk about pranks that he and Jared pulled on Misha. It seemed to work. She was absolutely glad that she had someone like Jensen to be with her through this hellish ordeal. This only made her fall in love with him more.

When everything was finally over, she was placed in a recovery room for the work done by the surgeon to set. Another hour went by, Y/N was getting agitated. She was in a lot of pain and she still wasn’t allowed to take any painkillers. Jensen sat beside her in bed while she rested her back and head against his side. He carded his fingers through her hair, to soothe her into sleep. She kept going in and out of sleep as he watched some telly in mute.

40 minutes later the doctor came in waking her up, “How are you feeling, Y/N?”

“I’d love some drugs.” She mumbled.

“I’m prescribing you some stronger painkillers which you can take as and when you require, along with some other tablets.” He said scribbling down on his pad.

“She’s going to be fine, right?” Asked Jensen.

“Yup, we got all of it out. She’ll make a full recovery in a couple of months.” He smiled.

“Is there anything we need to watch out for? Any special care?”

“Just make sure you keep the wound clean. You need to change the dressing which the nurse will show you how to do. And I’ll see you back here after three weeks.”

“Thanks, doc.” Jensen shook his hand, before the man left.

The nurse changed Y/N’s dressing and Jensen paid close attention to it so he could do it when they got back home. After everything was done and after signing the discharge papers, Y/N was wheeled out to the parking lot to get back. Jensen helped her into the car and they drove home.

_______________

Y/N was getting increasingly frustrated in the past couple of days being completely immobile. Jensen had to do everything for her. From helping her to pee and poop, to giving her a bath. She refused to leave the bed and resorted to moping in her room. She hated being so helpless and depending on Jensen for small things that a child could manage.

Jensen on the other hand was getting worried about her. Her foot was doing fine so far. The painkillers were doing their job for the most part and he made sure she was comfortable. But Y/N was still upset and he didn’t know what to do. He was afraid to bring it up because she was getting a bit snippy too. But he had had enough of it after she had snapped at him when he asked her once again if she was okay and if she needed anything.

“Okay! That’s enough, Y/N!” Snapped Jensen. “I don’t get what your problem is. I’m doing what I can to keep you comfortable and you’ve been nothing but snippy and irritated!”

Y/N looked at him wide eyes. She didn’t expect him to snap back. She knew she was being a bitch but she didn’t know how to stop because she was in pain and no where to go and completely frustrated.

“I get you’re in pain. I really do. I know the situation ain’t ideal, and it’s bugging you to have me carry you around everywhere. But you’re not even trying to wrap your mind around it!” He was pissed and tired. He rubbed his face with his hands. “I need some space. I’ll be in my office.” He said curtly and walked out their room.

Y/N was filled with overwhelming guilt. She was only thinking about herself and didn’t think about the situation Jensen was in. It wasn’t just her who was limited to the house, so was he. Sure he could walk around, but he too must be feeling cooped up staying at home for the past couple of days. Not to mention, helping her deal with her pain and take care of her like a baby and be at her constant beck and call.

She laid there tearing up. She hated it. She felt like all she did was cry and now she was disappointing Jay. She was lost in her guilt ridden thoughts when suddenly she had the urge to pee. She groaned in frustration. She didn’t want to bother Jensen by calling him. Besides he was mad at her and he needed the space. She sat up in bed and grabbed onto the wall above the headboard and pulled herself up. But she lost her balance and accidentally placed her injured foot on the floor, crying out in pain. But she managed to balance herself in one foot and once the throbbing came down she hopped her way slowly to the toilet. She stopped midway almost losing her balance but a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist and picked her up.

“I got you. You should’ve called me, Y/N” Jensen whispered.

“I didn’t want to bother you more than I already do, Jay.” She whispered back.

Jensen didn’t say anything. He helped her to the bathroom and helped her balance on one foot as she pulled her pants down. He gently sat her down on the seat letting her do her job. Once done he helped her to the sink to wash her hands and then picked her up to put her on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Jay” Y/N began after a few seconds of silence. “You’re right. I’ve been so irritable and stuck in my own misery that I forgot you’re stuck with me too. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“The issue isn’t that I’m stuck with you, baby girl. I love being stuck with you. The issue is you not trying at all. This crap happened to you. But I’m here for you, Y/N. I’m here to keep you company and help you around. I miss my wife. I miss having fun with you.”

“I miss having fun with you too, Jay.” She said sadly. “I’m sorry I’ve been difficult.”

“It’s okay, honey. I’m sorry I left like that. You didn’t hurt yourself right?”

“I kind of stepped on my foot while getting up. But I don’t think anything happened.”

“Okay, let’s take a look. It’s time to change the dressing anyway.” He said getting up to get the supplies. “And then, you missy, are getting out of this room and sitting out on the porch with me, okay? No objections!” He said turning around and pointing at her.

“I like the sound of that.” She grinned.

“Good.”

“Jay?”

“Yes, Y/N?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, dork.” He grinned and went to get the stuff for her foot.

Y/N supposed she could deal with few days of being immobile as long as she had Jensen. He always knew how to bring her back to herself no matter what.

❅ ❅ ❅

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@hobby27 @akshi8278

[vanaera]

𝐌𝐲 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝟎𝟐 | 𝐣𝐣𝐤

Synopsis: A future technology allows cops to jump in the past and future to investigate crimes that have happened and prepare for those that are about to happen. A simple hit-and-run turns into something more when Captain Jeon Jungkook finds himself as the victim of a culprit who cannot be identified by the system. Especially when the culprit seems to be the same person behind the new case that’s threatening the order in the justice organization. All goes haywire when Jungkook gets involved with Y/N L/N, the clairvoyant sketch artist who may be his only help to solve the case.

Characters: Jungkook x Female Reader

Genre/AU: Sci-fi, romance, angst, mystery, action (cop!JK x artist!you), based on the movie Minority Report

Wordcount: 8.2k

Warnings: Dark themes and implied smut (in future chapters); heavy descriptions of a hit-and-run; mentions of blood from injuries (PG-16 Rating)

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭

              The skies were gray and the streets were damp and yet the air remains humid. The scorching heat on the pavement permeates the soles of his leather combat boots. It’s the familiar stench of Down Hill. Jungkook could already smell it when he’s just reaching the boundary between it and Middle Town.

              Jungkook looks down at the scrap of paper that’s been in his pocket since the day started. Namjoon had to write the address of this Y/N L/N, lest DOJ traces his electronic trail and take him in for unnecessary questioning. Jungkook himself had to make up some petty excuse of a “hurting arm” to file a day-off. He just hopes all of this spent effort will worth him something.

              Jungkook nears the 7-Eleven sitting in the fork of the streets. Namjoon wrote Y/N’s studio is cramped among the apartments around this area. He said she never really penned down a home to accommodate covert meet-ups like this. All she has is her studio. 

              In “Mini Palais, 23-B,” Jungkook mutters again, huffing in front of a door with cracking cadet blue paint. He finds the unit after climbing up a series of stairs at the end of the alleyway jammed between the decaying 7-Eleven and a battered motor shop. Jungkook raises his hand to knock when the door bursts open.

              In front of him is a girl. Namjoon already said so and although Jungkook thinks it’s accurate enough for the girl who’s looking up at him through chopped raven bangs, it also wasn’t really enough to describe her. Because the girl in front of him was an aberrant mix of a girl and a woman. Jungkook thinks she’s around her early thirties if he were to consider Namjoon’s history of working with her for about ten years in FJO. There are faint lines around her eyes to support that. However, her relatively small height, plump cheeks, and the natural rosy hue of her lips beg to decrease ten years off that supposed age.  With her youthful face, messy half-bun, and the white, floral off-shoulder dress flowing past her knees, no one will argue with Jungkook if he were to say she’s just 22. 

              “Who are you?”

              “Oh, um,” Jungkook flashes his badge, “I’m Jungkook Jeon, a captain in the Federal Justice Organization. Precrime, Murder sector. I’m here to um, avail your…services for a case.”

              The girl cocks her head to the side and gives him a once over. “I’m sorry, I don’t do services for the FJO anymore.” She moves to close the door but Jungkook was quick to block a foot between it and the wall.

              “I’m a contact of Namjoon’s!” Jungkook exclaims, “He’s Lieutenant Seokjin Kim’s close subordinate.” This is a card he didn’t want to use but it looks like he has no other choice left. Jungkook clears his throat. “Actually, I’m a very close contact of Namjoon. We’re best friends. I even live with him. He’s the one who told me to, um, consult you for the case I’m handling.” 

              The girl opens the door an inch. Jungkook hands a folded paper to her. She spreads it open and scans through the letter. Jungkook doesn’t know what it actually says. Namjoon just thrust it into his hands on his way out and told him not to open it. It must be an effective personal request because by the time the girl reaches the end, she’s pushing her door wide open, tilting her head to the side, beckoning him to come inside. However, her face remains grim.

              “I’m Y/N L/N. This is my studio. I know you already know I prefer to transact business here even for ones intended to be covert. So first off, I want to say I’m sorry you have to travel to such a place like this.”

              Jungkook shakes his head, “Oh no, it’s definitely alright—”

              “I kinda think it’s not when you grew up in a comfortable life. You must be quite shaken up.”

              Jungkook freezes. Y/N looks at him, “Oh, I didn’t look into you or something. It’s just a hypothetical guess, seeing your,” she motions to his silver watch. “That’s expensive. No one from here will be able to afford it anytime soon.”

              Jungkook’s shoulders turn lax. Y/N points to a chair next to a table in the corner. “Just wait there. I’m about to finish this piece in just a sec. Then I’m all yours.”

              Jungkook nods and makes himself comfortable on the seat. Unlike its appearance on the outside, Y/N’s unit is not much of a concrete wreck. It still looks a bit rough. The ceiling has cracks all over it.  A small white bulb precariously hangs on its center. It looks too weak to illuminate the whole room when the night comes. Jungkook thinks it’s a good thing that the unit has huge gaping rectangular windows to let in the natural light. The floor is cemented in gray but the work on it is unimpressive as there are numerous uneven layers, rough patches, and dents that could only be ascribed to poor mason work. The white wallpaper is torn around, some even wet at the edges—probably due to a leak during rains. 

              However, the flowers painted on them is vibrant enough to uplift the dreary unit. Paintings are littered around. Many are big, a few are small. Some were seated on easels, several are just laying around on the floor. Newspapers are strewn across the majority of the floor. Buckets and tin cans of paints line up the corners like a prayer circle. 

              All the colors present in the room can only be attributed to the paint that’s strewn across the newspapers, the paintings, and the 6’ tall canvas of an owl in flight Y/N is currently working on. The girl is standing on a small foldable ladder, painting the feathers of the bird at the top of the canvas. When the wind blows her hair to the side, Jungkook finds a mirage of colors on the scarlet spider lilies inked on her spine.

              After about two minutes, Y/N steps down and dumps her brush into a rusted bucket filled with water. She turns to the man on the chair and makes her way to the stool opposite his. She fixes down her dress and finally looks at Jungkook. “So, what case do you have for me?”

              “This,” Jungkook slides a couple of pictures toward her. They are the screen captures from the CCTV records that caught the black Jaguar. “There’s an unknown driver who’s doing an illegal time jump patterned to Precrime’s traveling agents. We tried to run in the license plate but it just turned to be ‘invalid.’ All we know is that the suspect is male, slim, and tall. He’s interested in the Winston Assassination, and has probably inside ties in FJO since he easily entered the Special Operations Building just ten days ago.”

              “None of the traveling agents has seen this man before? Precrime or Forecrime?”

              Jungkook shakes his head.

              Y/N licks a finger and flips to the next picture, “What about the car?”

              “None of the agents has seen a suspicious sedan sports Jaguar before. It’s the first time we have someone presumably well-to-do threatening the justice system.”

              Y/N nods. Jungkook inserts his hand into his pocket and retrieves a black USB. He hands it to the girl. “Here’s more of the screenshots from the CCTVs, taken in each second. I can’t give you the CCTVs because of the protocol. I can only give you these. Just imagine they’re moving,” Jungkook purses his lips as he looks at the girl. “I want you to identify this man for me.”

              Y/N tucks the USB into her dress’ pocket. She slides the pictures back to Jungkook. “This seems to be a heavy identification check then. Not that I couldn’t handle, of course. However, Namjoon must have told you that my rates are quite high—”

              “Money is not a problem.”

              Y/N cocks a brow, “So you did grow up a comfortable life.”

              Jungkook clenches his jaw.

              Y/N chuckles, “Okay, I’m not gonna dwell on it more. It’s settled then. Send your weekly payment to this account,” Y/N tears a piece from the rolls of paper by her side, scribbles on it, and hands it to him. “Every Friday, 10 AM sharp.” Jungkook looks at the paper before tucking it in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

              Y/N crosses her arms, “We can start next week after you give me the downpayment.”

              Jungkook zips open a duffel bag and places a stack of bills on the table.

              “Eager, aren’t we?” Y/N smiles, “I like that.” She flips through the bills before deciding they’re legitimate and dumping it into a box by her feet. 

              Y/N turns to him. “Now, where are we? Oh—you must already know, but what I really do here is foreseeing the future for whatever cause you have. It’s not just trivial fortune-telling but a purposive one. I can accurately give you whatever you want to know.” 

              Jungkook nods. Y/N’s leans forward on the table. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really have terms and conditions with my clients. Or any contract to ensure them their protection, as what I do tend to…increase risks. Emotional security and mental stability on your part. Those two and physical toll on mine. It will be absurd to provide any contract as what I am doing is anything but guaranteeing protection. I can’t also be fully transparent about the mechanisms behind the things I will do for you. Otherwise, my gift won’t work. What I can only assure is I’ll never proceed on any memories you have set boundaries on. Should you decide to stop this negotiation anywhere in the future, I will automatically concede and keep the confidentiality of whatever that may happen. As long as on your part, you won’t consider asking for a refund.”

              “I understand.”

              “Good,” Y/N smiles, “Now first things first. Tell me any hurting point you have.”

              Jungkook goes stiff. “Is this actually necessary?”

              Y/N nods. “I know this is a tough question, but we’re talking about memories here.”

              “I know but I can’t just divulge them to a stranger—"

              “I think you don’t get what I’m saying.” Y/N lets out a humorless chuckle. “Look, Jungkook, when I attempt to see the future concerning this elusive driver you’re after, it is inevitable for the past to re-appear. There is no future without any past. Your past memories can clog up with the ones involved in the case because you are in the case. You’re heading it. Good or bad, memories will come up. That’s their thing.  They spring up at the most inconvenient times. No matter how old they already are. No matter how long you must have already moved on from them. Memories demand to be remembered and you cannot just disregard them even if you will it to because it never gave anyone a choice to do otherwise.  So, if you don’t set the boundaries on the memories you don’t want me to cross, I’ll just see everything in their utter unadulterated form.” Y/N leans forward, “And I can assure you, you don’t want that to happen.” 

              Jungkook prods his cheek with his tongue. “Fine. I’ll give you my hurting point and that’s that. No further questions.”

              “Okay.”

              Jungkook digs in his back pocket for his wallet and flips it open. There’s a tattered white edge of a picture peeking through the flaps. It’s been years since he pulled it out. Its replica, now tucked in his shelf, has prevented him from doing so for so many years. Jungkook closes his eyes and slides it toward the girl. “This boy. Anything that concerns him, I don’t want you to cross or even bring up. Understand?”

              “Okay.” Y/N hands back the photo to him. “We go to the second step then. You must already have your assumed suspects. Tell me their names.”

              Jungkook draws back. “I can’t tell you that, that’s highly classified information. FJO’s protocol doesn’t allow it and—”

              “Do you seeking my help part of the protocol?”

              Jungkook looks down, “No.”

              “Right. So, tell me their names. I need to know them to make a memory map.”

              Jungkook’s brows meet “A what?”

              “A memory map,” Y/N repeats, “It’s something I make to identify points of certain memories in time. It guides me to the memories I need to tread to reach what I’m really looking for. It’s like a demo version of Forecrime’s box trainings but except of a machine, I’m doing it manually by hand. For all we know, the real suspect must be close to these suspects.” 

              Jungkook’s brow quirks up.

              Y/N leans forward, “So, tell me their names?”

              Jungkook turns his face away from her, looking at his clasped hands. “Well, I…only have one.”

              “And that is?”

              “Leigh Anderson. Winston’s assassin. FJO has been after him for 17 years. He also has a number of sponsors who’s been sending him missions with promises of large sums of money. But most of all, he’s rumored to have access to time jumping technologies. Illegal of course. FJO is the only one licensed to be utilizing them.”

              “That’s good,” Y/N quips. “Do you have any pictures of him?”

              Jungkook turns to his duffel bag and retrieves a picture. It’s Anderson in the scene of Winston’s murder that FJO has pinned to their system. The one in the crime record Jungkook produced. He hands it to Y/N. “Is this enough?”

              “More than enough,” Y/N smiles. She stands up and walks to one of her cupboards, reaching for a ceramic bowl. She pours some tap water in it and turns back to the table, a short, white candle in hand. She places the candle on the water, letting it float. She retrieves a lighter from her dress pocket and lights up the wick of the candle.

              Y/N puts her palms open on the table. “Let’s start now. Do you have your clicker with you?”

              Jungkook’s brows meet. “What?”

              “Your time jumper,” Y/N grits.

              Jungkook looks at her incredulously. “I don’t see any reason why would you need it—”

              “We’re going to the past to have a tangible memory to start on my memory map.” Before Jungkook could tear himself away from the table, Y/N launches forward and snatches the small, black device hanging on the man’s belt loop. Jungkook shoots an arm out and grabs onto it.

              But it’s too late. Y/N’s already pushed the button.

              The air is knocked out of Jungkook’s windpipe. A numbing pain starts to settle on his chest, a migraine forming on his temple. His limbs also feel stone-heavy. Precrime traveling has always been like this and yet Jungkook can never get used to it. However, he’s not left wondering about it for long because in the next second, Jungkook’s standing in front of a dark road. Tall shrubs and trees shadowing the moon, CCTVs mounted on the lamp posts lining the concrete. It’s Somerset Road.  

              Jungkook’s eyes widen. Why is he here? He tries to move but his limbs are stuck by his side, unmoving as he grunts. He tries to take a step back but the effort is futile when his feet are seemingly glued onto the dark asphalt. Jungkook sighs and turns to the road in front of him again. And this time around, Jungkook’s mouth falls ajar.

              Y/N is standing idly at the other side of the road, opposite of him.

              “H-how did you travel here—”

              A car zooms past. Jungkook turns his head to the sound. The air is punched out from his esophagus. It’s his car—the silver-gray Ford. And there at the other end of the road emerges a black sedan sports Jaguar. The Jaguar speeds on and drives into the Ford, swerving it around, tires screeching loud on the pavement. It topples down, rolling around, then round, and round. Three times, Jungkook counted. Just like the CCTV Hoseok retrieved. The Ford stops, upside down. The black Jaguar zips past it. Like the CCTVs have shown, the Jaguar reaches the other end of the street and disappears. A second passes. The body of the driver in the car drops onto the cold pavement. It lolls his head to his side, bloodied face turned towards the man standing on the pavement. 

              Jungkook’s facing right into his past. He isn’t reliving the memory. He is living it. There’s no anger but pain. Fresh, unadulterated pain that cannot be accounted to the lacerations on his injured arm.

              The wind howls. Jungkook remains frozen in his position. Then suddenly, everything stops—the distant honking of the cars, the wind, the clatter of the crushed car pieces falling onto the ground. What the fuck is happening? Jungkook turns around, only to come face to face with the girl.

              Y/N’s arm shoots forward and fists the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him down to her level. “You didn’t say this business is personal!”

              “It’s not a big deal,” Jungkook spits, tearing her hand off him.

              “It is, Jungkook! You said you were involved. I didn’t think it was this level of involved!”

              “It doesn’t change any fact that I’m still going to be involved either way! I’m still going to head this case because it’s tied with Winston. What difference does it make if I am the victim of this fucking man?!”

              “A lot!” Y/N screams. Jungkook stops. Y/N sighs, “It does a lot of difference, Jungkook. We’re already risking a lot in this until it turns out you’re a focal point in this case! You’re a fucking victim of this culprit! A conflict of interest is highly possible. You will be unable disassociate yourself from this and objectively investigate this case—” 

              “I don’t need you telling me what I should do or not, Y/N.” Jungkook steps forward to the girl. “I know what I’m doing. And I know it when I say I can investigate this following all the legal protocols.”

              Y/N tilts her head. “How can you say that when you’ve just been face-to-face with your past self?” 

              Before Jungkook can say anything, Y/N closes her eyes and clicks her finger. In just one second, everything around Jungkook falls beneath his feet—the trees, Somerset Road, his bloodied self. It rips themselves off from his senses until all he could see again is the dilapidated atelier, the barren ceilings, and, Y/N.

              Jungkook hunches over, coughing as air fills his lungs again. “H-how could you do that?”

              Y/N blows off the candle. “My gift.” She glances at the man. “The accident is taking a serious toll on you. I have to take us out of the time jump.”

                Jungkook sits back and glowers at her. “N-no, what I’m asking about is—how could you snatch my clicker and make a jump without any remorse? You do know that’s illegal!”

              “I know. ‘FJO’s traveling agents and officials are the only ones allowed by the law to engage in time jumping activities’ yaddah yaddah bullshit.”  Y/N leans on the table, face hovering the Captain’s. “But involving a then-law practitioner, much more an outsider like me, into your case is also illegal. I have my gift, yes. But I can only see the future and I won’t be able to see it accurately if I don’t have some sense of the past. Plus, I have no other pragmatic choice to start this case on the right foot. I already saw the future of our negotiation before you sat down on that stool. There’s nothing else I could say other than it didn’t end favorably for any of us.” Y/N turns back to the table she’s clearing, “Not that it’s any different now. Especially when I just learned the case you’ve showed me is more personal than you presented it to be.”

              Jungkook purses his lips. He stands up, gathers his things, and wordlessly makes his way out of the atelier. He didn’t bid the girl any farewell.

              “Looks like you haven’t been sleeping.”

              Jungkook looks up at his friend before looking down at his crossed arms, turning his attention back to his mug of coffee.

        ��     Namjoon takes a seat cross Jungkook. “Did something happen?” He twirls the tea bag around his own mug, “Care to tell why you’ve been sporting those dark eye bags since two days ago?”

              “It’s nothing.”

              “It’s not nothing when the doctor precisely told you to have a healthy lifestyle to help your wound heal faster.”

              Jungkook looks at Namjoon.

              Namjoon points to his bandaged arm, “It indeed doesn’t look it’s healing fast like it’s supposed to.”

              Jungkook sighs. “Fine, you caught me.” He purses his lips then looks at his friend, “I’ve been wondering. You know our clickers are designed to identify the agent it was assigned to before it could work. But, is it…possible for clickers to work on someone that doesn’t belong to FJO as long as someone from FJO is present?”

              Namjoon keeps his gaze on him. A look of surprise seems to wash over his face. But it soon gets replaced by a look of recognition. Namjoon places the tea bag onto the saucer on his left. “I see you already met Y/N.”

              “Y-you knew that about her?”

              “I do,” Namjoon mutters over his cup of tea. “I learned it when the Bureau looked into the Linton Park serial murders. Seokjin’s team, including me, followed the memory map she made for us—a trail of memories that specifically belongs to anything related to the murders. But then, we hit a dead-end for the supposed next victim. Can’t identify her. We only had images of flashing movement—blood splattering in a barn, people running on a green field. There are just cops and a woman.” 

              Namjoon places down his cup, “And so, Y/N told me she needed me to help her make a time jump in the past. I pressed on the clicker and,” Namjoon shrugs, “Y/N successfully made the jump. And also successfully return with the info of the victim—a girl working on a farm. Y/N tied it to the flashing images of the field and deduced the running was not about us chasing a murderer’s accomplice. But us running after a victim before Linton could. It was hard to tell at first why the victim is running away from us. Until we learned through Y/N she was an illegal immigrant.” 

              Namjoon pulls his lips into a tight smile. “I think it’s an additional gift. But at the same time, it’s also a setback. A rightful one at that. Y/N’s inability to time jump in the past unless with a clicker a meter radius within her balances the power of her future-seeing gift. She still needs to rely on the system even if her gift for the future is, hypothetically, unbound from any constraints.” Namjoon takes a sip of his tea. “How ‘bout you? How did you learn this…extra ability of hers?”

              “She snatched my clicker from me,” Jungkook leans back in his seat. “She said she needed a ‘tangible memory’ to start on her memory map. She ended up thrusting us back into the time of my car accident.”

              Namjoon freezes. “Excuse me? Did you say ‘us’?”

              Jungkook’s forehead furrows, “Yeah. We did the jump together, that’s why I’m asking you about this thing with the clickers.” 

              “Jungkook, she never did that before.”

              Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “What?”

              Namjoon scratches his nape, face scrunched up. “When she asked me to let her jump through my clicker, she didn’t take me along with the jump. It’s only her. Like it should always be as one clicker is only for one user. It’s always been like this in all the situations she asked me for a time jump in the past.” Namjoon looks at him, “I don’t know why you got in the same loop as her.”

              The night was quiet but devoid of peace. Like an ugly pause in a running film that’s just about to unwind the questions they laid at the start. Even after intaking his blue pills, Jungkook finds it difficult to close his eyes shut.

              “Big brother!”

              Jungkook turns around. The small boy stands on his tiptoes, small arms reaching for him. Jungkook smiles, “You want to climb on my back again, Daehyun?”

              “Yes!” Daehyun giggles.

              “Alright then,” Jungkook crouches in front of him and Daehyun’s squeals grow louder as he loops his stubby arms around Jungkook’s neck. Jungkook stands up, securing the boy’s short legs around his torso. “Ready for some wind, big boy?” He asks. Daehyun nods frantically and soon, Jungkook is zooming on the green field, turning the heads of the children and volunteers in the park. But all Jungkook could hear was Daehyun’s laughter filling the nice summer afternoon. It brings a huge smile on Jungkook’s face. 

              Then—flashing blue and red lights. Cold pavement. A lone school bus standing in the middle. Its yellowness highlighted by the police’s yellow tape surrounding the area. Reporters dot every possible space on the crossroad. “Shooter on the loose.” “Poor child.” “Blood splattered on the seats.” But all Jungkook could hear is the white noise of the chattering. And the call of “Big brother!” he’ll never hear anymore. 

              Jungkook jolts awake. He sighs, closing his eyes. “It’s all in the past,” he mutters repeatedly under his breath. But no matter how many times he repeats it, it doesn’t shake off the horror he’s reeling in. He’s had this dream again and again for eight years straight. He should be already accustomed to it. 

              Jungkook sits up straight. He turns back to his computer and sees a couple of pictures open on the desktop. It was the screenshots of the CCTVs Yoongi gave them. He looks at the top of his desk. His notes empty of anything new other than Leigh Anderson’s name webbed next to an un-filled space for sponsors. Jungkook covers his face with his palms and yawns. Just then a series of text messages come in.

              Unknown: This is Y/N. I know we left on bad terms three days ago. I’m the one to blame for that for overreacting. I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve done a case for FJO. I’m still kinda hung up separating personal services from investigative ones. (2:13 P.M.)

              Unknown: Nevertheless, I hope you’re free this day. Meet me at Somerset Road. 3 P.M. I don’t want you to waste the money you gave me yesterday (2:13 P.M.)  

              Somerset Road is a thirty-minute drive from the FJO Main Headquarters. However, it didn’t feel like it when Jungkook parks his car on the side road. It seemed like hours have gone by when the sun is about to set in the alcove of trees in the distance. It’s just three in the afternoon. Jungkook steps outside and shuts the door. From his position, he could make out a girl in ripped black denim pants and black tank layered with a pink see-through mesh shirt. From the striking red of the spider lilies on the top of her spine, Jungkook could tell it was Y/N. He almost didn’t recognize her. He wouldn’t know she has an undercut had her high ponytail didn’t highlight it.

              The girl turns around and looks at him. “You’re late.”

              “I have to bribe the Maintenance Office first to give me this afternoon’s CCTVs when we’re done.” Jungkook strides toward her, “How did you get my number?”

              “Namjoon.”

              Jungkook cocks a brow.

              Y/N shrugs, “he wrote it in the letter you gave me. Should you, quote-unquote, be ‘difficult to deal with.’”

              Jungkook keeps his lips in a straight line.

              Y/N rocks on her toes, hands in her pocket. “Let’s get straight to it then. Take your clicker out and push it.”

              “What are you intending to do—”

              “A time jump.”

              “Of course, I know that. What other purpose do we use our time jumps for?” Jungkook spits. “What I want to know is what we’re supposed to be doing first before I follow whatever you want me to do because I cannot just blindly trust you with this—”

              Y/N turns her head to him, one brow cocked up, “Didn’t I tell you before I don’t fancy How-What-Why-Whatever questions to what I do or else my gift won’t work?”

              “Yes, but—”

              “Look, will you just push it or do you want me to snatch it from you again?” Y/N takes a step closer to him, leveling his eyes with hers. “I already did a read for today. I know its new hiding place.”

              Jungkook remains unmoving in his stance.

              Y/N crosses her arms. “If it would assure you, this session won’t end taxingly fruitless like the last time. I’m positive we’ll get something by the end of today.”

              “How did you know?”

              “I told you, I did a read for today. I saw you with an astounded face and me with a happy and proud smile. Obviously, we must have ended up finding something.”

              Jungkook is still unconvinced.

              Y/N sighs, “If you don’t want to do anything of what I can offer you, you know you can just terminate our connection anytime you want. Just so you know you can’t refund the 10,000 zials you gave me for the downpayment.”

              Jungkook keeps his gaze on her. A couple of seconds pass before he sighs and shakes his head as he takes out his issued clicker tucked in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

              Y/N smirks. “See? You know you’re gonna need me in the end and you still try to put up an unnecessary fight.”

              Jungkook grunts. He turns the clicker’s indicator to “1-2 weeks” timeframe and pushes the button.

              It was just like their previous time jump—like any other Precrime time jump. It felt like nothing yet also everything at the same time. An amalgamation of sensations and perceptions flashing in front of him in the blink of an eye as he is transported back to the night of his accident. Jungkook looks down at his feet. He’s back to where he last stood at—the left side of the road next to the corner where his car will come from. Jungkook turns to his left and he almost jumps in shock. Unlike their last jump, Y/N is no longer on the opposite side of the road, but beside him, shoulders almost bumping his. Jungkook takes a staggering step away from her. 

              Even if Namjoon laid everything he knows about Y/N’s skills yesterday, Jungkook still finds it hard to accept that a clairvoyant is able to look into the past with such effortless access. Aren’t they only supposed to see the future?

              “What are you looking at?”

              Jungkook tears his gaze away from her. “Nothing.”

              “Thought so, too,” Y/N quips. “We’re here to work after all. Not ogle at each other.” 

              Jungkook tongues his cheek. He’s not left to his frustration for long as after a second, the burning of tires on the asphalt is heard on their side of the road. A silver-gray Ford appears and it zooms past them in a flash. A black Jaguar subsequently shows up on the other side, its form nearing them each millisecond that passes. It’s only time ‘til the two crashes and sends Jungkook’s car rolling three times on the road.

              But, it didn’t happen. The howls of the wind stop. The screeching of the tires halts in awkward silence. And the cars are frozen still. The Jaguar’s bumper and Ford’s right door are separated by a mere inch. It’s the second before the accident happens. Paused in a picture-like frame as if someone hit the pause icon on a video.

              Jungkook whips his head to his side. Y/N has her palm closed in a post-click of her thumb and middle fingers. Jungkook feels his throat clog up, “H-how did you do that?”

              Y/N rolls her eyes. “Told you before, it’s because of my gift. And it’s also just seconds ago I told you I don’t like questions about how my gift works.” Y/N steps away from him and onto the road. “Follow me.” 

              Jungkook silently follows behind. It’s only a matter of seconds that they reach the side of the door of the silver-gray Ford. Jungkook lets his fingers touch on the coated metal. It felt cold on his flesh. Solid. Real. Jungkook can’t help but be astonished. This is no regular time jump. Totally unlike the first one he did with the woman. For this time, Jungkook doesn’t feel he’s living the film of the scene, just like any of the standard Precrime time jumping. This time, Jungkook feels he’s in the scene. Not in a film, not like the virtual reality experienced by Forecrime agents. But in real-time.

              “Take your hands off your car.”

              Jungkook tears his hands away from his car. He looks at the girl. Y/N gives him a pointed look, “I know this time jump doesn’t feel like the standard time jumps of Precrime so you may be astounded with,” she motions around them, “all of this. But I prefer you not to get too overwhelmed. We’re here for work.”

              Jungkook nods, reluctant. Y/N walks further into the side of the road, now a foot away from the spot where the cars should crash. Jungkook quickly follows behind. When he’s by an arms-length away from her, he faces back to the scene in front of him. And then, Y/N clicks her hand.

              The trees sway again. The winds continue their violent gush on the road. And the cars collide. The film is playing again.

              But then, Y/N clicks her fingers. The scene stops, frozen yet again. The bumper of the Jaguar has dug into the Ford’s door, crushing the metal with its momentum. The side mirror is broken, glass shards shattering in mid-air.

              “Come here,” Y/N beckons. Jungkook walks close behind as Y/N stops by the point of intersection of the two cars.  From their position, Jungkook could see the past him hunched over on the wheel, seat belt digging into his torso. The window by his side is broken, a splotch of blood marring the clear glass. And on his right, Jungkook could see the driver of the black Jaguar. Non-existent.

              Y/N looks at him, “So we know the man you’re after is doing an illegal time jump similar to the pattern of Precrime’s traveling agents. But what you don’t know is: he’s a professional.”

              “W-what?” 

              “Look,” Y/N flicks her wrist and makes an anti-clockwise motion of her hand. The sound goes void again and the cars back away from each other in slow motion. Jungkook’s brows shoot up.  The scene is rewinding. Y/N is turning back the time before the Jaguar collided into the Ford. And then, Y/N moves her arm horizontally to her left and clicks her fingers. The Jaguar moves forward again, but slowly this time. Jungkook could see the silhouette of the driver with arms taut on the wheel disappearing into a cloud of smoke until it turns no more but a nonexistent person on the seat as it hits the door of the Ford. 

              Y/N clicks her fingers and the scene pauses. “As you saw, it only took the driver,” she glances at her watch, “ten seconds before completely disappearing into his time jump. From how fast he disappeared, we could say it only took him twenty seconds in total to make the entire jump. I can only deduce this as the memories we have are short of the time we could see him in his solid form. The same way goes for the CCTVs you gathered. It only captured the last ten seconds of the whole accident. The Jaguar nonexistent in the frame from 20:23:39 and anything beyond before that time mark. The CCTVs only showed the Jaguar from 20:23:40 to exactly 20:24. The last 10 seconds, devoid of any driver.” 

              The girl continues, “Now, to be able to completely vanish in just 20 seconds, you must be a professional in time jumping in the past. Which can only be done if you’ve undergone training under Precrime. However, this could also be just any other outsider that’s gotten lucky doing an illegal time jump. Considering Somerset Road has a strong electromagnetic field that can help anyone do their time jumps faster and more successfully—including the risky ones that involve a huge time frame of unbounded jumps into the past. But to know that about Somerset Road, much less know how to effectively take advantage of its field during a time jump—you should be a long-time agent of Precrime.” 

              Y/N faces Jungkook, “The man you’re after is either a professional Precrime traveling agent or an outsider who’s fed with all the necessary information only a Precrime agent could know. It’s an inside job.”

              Jungkook shakes his head, “No. It can’t be. Every time-jumping device has a permanent tracker that can never be taken out even by the best engineer. Allen McGregor designed it to be like that to ensure these devices will not be used for personal interest. Every agent is tracked of their traveling activities and logged straight into the Investigation Bureau’s files. They’re inputted in glass files similar to the crime records—void for editing, copying, and deleting. And should it be an outsider utilizing Precrime’s technology, a travel will still be tracked back to the agent whose device was used.” Jungkook looks at Y/N. “There have been no reports of anyone traveling on Somerset Road the night of my accident.”

              Y/N shrugs, “I’m just saying what I saw. Especially this.” Y/N makes an anti-clockwise motion of her hands and the scene rewinds again.  The Jaguar is frozen back into five seconds before it hits the silver-gray Ford. Y/N walks toward the car, Jungkook close behind. The girl motions to the passenger seat and Jungkook stills. There on the leather seat is a red file case. Unprecedented murder. Precrime Murder Sector. But this is not what rendered Jungkook immobile in shock. Rather, it’s the label on the file case. 

              “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”

              “See?” Y/N smirks, “Told you we’ll find something today.”

              A click of the hand and soon, the dark night sky of Somerset Road bleeds into the burning colors of the sunset. There’s no longer the silver-gray Ford and the black Jaguar. It’s just Jungkook and Y/N alone in the road, back to where they were before.

              Jungkook hunches over, coughing as he beats his chest. When he finally stabilizes his breathing back to normal, he turns to the girl. “You…Ho-how can you be so sure with all of these vi-visions?”

              Y/N looks at Jungkook, an indecipherable look on her face. “This is what you paid for 10,000 zials. I’m handing you what your eyes missed on just the way they are.”

              Jungkook holds in his breath as he knocks on the glass door.

              “Come in.”

              Jungkook pushes the door open and salutes. “Chief Nathan Spencer.”

              “Captain Jeon,” the Chief of Precrime glances up at him before returning back to the stack of papers he’s signing. He motions to the chair in front of his desk, “Make yourself comfortable.”

              Jungkook pulls back the black chair and sits.

              “So, what brings you here?”

              “This week’s report, sir—the joint investigation with DOJ on the unidentified black Jaguar.” Jungkook places a brown folder on the Chief’s desk.

              The chief looks at the captain. “Still no progress in the identification?” 

              Jungkook shakes his head, face grim.

              “That can’t be helped,” Nathan sympathetically mutters. “It’s not the first time FJO has handled a difficult case.”

              “But it is the first time FJO can’t identify a suspect with its current system.”

              “You’re right,” Nathan nods. He flips open the brown folder and skims the report. “How’s the auditor doing?”

              Jungkook clenches his jaw. “Fine. Still…meddling with our processes.”

              Nathan lets out a light scoff. “As expected of someone who’s running for a promotion. Always been a know-it-all jerk, this Min Yoongi.”

              Jungkook makes a tight-lipped smile.

              Nathan chuckles. “Forgive me. I’ve always had a prejudice against DOJ’s auditors. Most, if not all of them, always give us a hard time more than what’s necessary. Anyway, what else do you have for me, Jungkook?”

              The captain sits up straight. “I would like to ask a favor, sir.”

              Nathan clasps his hand on his desk. He leans forward. “What is it?”

              “It’s for the investigation. DOJ has access to all of our files—Precrime, Forecrime, and even the Investigation Bureau. So I figured if I can also do the same since our sector seems to be their main target. If I have the same leverage on our own information as them, I can have control over this investigation and drive them away before they can even assume power over us.” Jungkook leans on the table, “We could see the problems first before they become visible to DOJ.”

              Nathan raises his brow. “So what do you mean?”

              “I would like to have unrestricted access in our archives. Everything that contains anything pertaining to FJO.” Jungkook leans forward, “Including the Memory Temple.” 

              The chief sighs, “That’s a big favor, Jungkook.”

              “I know. That’s why Chief General Andrews told me to go to you.”

              Nathan’s brows shoot up, “The Chief General?”

              “Yes, Chief General Matthew Andrews. He said you’re good friends with Chief of the Bureau, Natasha Ryde. Chief Andrews wants to ask if you could do a favor of a friend for a friend.” Jungkook slides a white envelope underneath the folder, “Of course, not without considerable credit.”

              Nathan purses his lips. A beat. He shakes his head, sighing. “Okay…I’ll try to put in a word for you. I can give you the entire archives tomorrow. But the Memory Temple could take a while. Two days or three.”

              “That’s fine with me.” Jungkook smiles. He stands up and heads to the end of the room. Before he could disappear behind the door, he salutes one more time, “Thank you for the kind accommodation, Chief.” 

              Jungkook heads to the main elevator and hits the second floor below the Superiors’ Hall. The metal doors ding open and soon, Jungkook’s looking at a wide expanse of glass wall reflecting hundreds of shelves on the glass panes.

              Jungkook heads to the entranceway and salutes at the guard, “Sally.” The guard returns the salute, smiling. Jungkook tilts his head, “Did the Bureau come by to retrieve Precrime files?”

              “Not yet, sir. The Bureau’s still busy in their matters with DOJ. They halted the synching of files for now.”

              “That’s good,” Jungkook quips and pushes the glass doors open.

              Tall metal bookshelves snake like an accordion around the floor. The spaces between them is occasionally filled up by wooden desks that mandatorily come along with a wooden bookstand and black study lamp. It looks like a hedge maze made of old books, monochrome papers, and multi-colored files.

              Jungkook heads to the leftmost aisle—Precrime’s archives. He weaves his way through the bookshelves until he stops in front of a separated room in the middle of the labyrinth. It’s made completely out of glass, just like FJO’s offices. The only difference is that this room contains five sets of desks and chairs, bookshelves, and the Archive Manager’s huge white station as the centerpiece.

              And before Jungkook could finish leveling his eyes to the scanner set by the door, he could already feel the growing stare of Emily Young.

              “Captain Jeon.”

              “Ms. Young,” Jungkook nods to the manager.

              Emily smiles, “To what do I owe your visit today?”

              “Jonathan Winston’s Assassination case file.” 

              “As usual,” The thirty-seven-year-old manager sing-songs as she stands up and disappears into the back room. It doesn’t take long for her to retrieve what the Precrime captain is looking for.

              A long expandable, red file with the label in Arial 12 print: “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”

              Just like in Y/N’s time jump. Identically the same. Jungkook looks at the manager, “Do you have a log of anyone who looks into this file?”

              Emily chuckles, “I don’t think that will bring anything new to the table, captain.” She scans the numeric code of the file and turns the monitor of her computer towards him. “There’s no one who’s been looking at this file but you.”

              Jungkook peers in. Indeed, the log on Winston’s file contains nothing but his name. From August 15, 2047, the date of Winston’s assassination, to the most recent date, August 3, 2059. The day after Leigh Anderson’s suicide. The day after the Winston case was closed cold. There’s no other name in the log for 12 years other than his name.

              Jungkook looks back at Emily, “Are you sure this is the complete log on this file? No one borrowed the file earlier than July 12th?”

              “That’s the whole log, captain. There’s no record on August 1st because we’re closed to do an inventory check.” Emily leans back in her chair. “Everyone knows you’re busy on a case in Down Hill for the entirety of June. The Allison future murder is all over the news. Of course, with a Metropolis resident as a future victim. And with you busy on another case, this Winston’s file is devoid of any viewers.” Emily releases a chuckle. “Every cop has an obsession with a particular case. Everyone here knows Winston’s case is yours. I think I will remember if someone other than you looked into this file because I swear that day will be a miracle.”

              Jungkook purses his lips, face undecipherable. Right then, his phone rings loud. He turns to his back and picks it up. “Hello?”

              “Captain.” It’s Jimin.

              “What is it?”

              “You have to come to the sector now. There’s a file from Precrime. It’s…a blank.”

              “Okay, I’ll be there soon,” Jungkook ends the call. He faces Emily. “Thank you for today, Emily.” The archives manager nods with a playful salute at him. Jungkook quickly returns the salute and pushes the door open. Soon, he’s tearing past the labyrinth of shelves.

              It doesn’t take Jungkook longer than ten minutes to reach the left-wing of the 2nd floor. The cold sweat from the discovery in the archives is still clinging on his nape. 

              As soon as he steps into Murder Sector, everyone’s eyes are set on him. Including Yoongi. Jungkook prods his cheek with his tongue as he slides in the gloves over his hands. “Jimin, give me the run-over.”

              “Captain, Jeon. It’s a grayish-white file. Precrime, Property and Crime Scene Sector. Traveling agent in charge is Eric Williams. Crime record validated by traveling agents Hannah Peters and Ivan Park. Case number 3571, hit-and-run, destruction of property.  Suspect is unknown. Victim’s name is…Jeon Jungkook.”

              Jungkook whips his head towards the secretary, eyes wide.

              “It’s your case, sir.” Jimin confirms, “Eric accidentally time jumped into the night of your hit-and-run while he’s traveling for a T-Bone accident in Middle Town. Property and Crime Scene figured this blank is a crucial update on your case.” He walks to the end of the glass board and slides the disk into the middle slot.

              Jungkook turns to his front. The glass board lights up and a video starts playing. It’s Somerset Road and it’s almost pitch black in the grainy film. Eric stands frozen on the pavement for a second. But the seeming serenity of the scene soon dissipates as he looks down at his gear and frantically fumbles for his time jumper. Suddenly, hot blinding light fills his peripherals. Eric’s head shoots up. A car is speeding toward him. The headlights grow larger and finally, the car becomes visible. It’s the silver-gray Ford. Eric turns around and right then, a black Jaguar zooms past him, merely missing him by a hairsbreadth. But the Jaguar doesn’t stop and further increases its speed. It bulldozers right into the side of the Ford, sending it flying across the barren road. Eric picks up his feet and dashes to the cars. But his efforts are futile. The black Jaguar has already disappeared before he could even take his 12th step. And then, the record stops.

              Before Jimin could even state the protocol run-through, Jungkook frantically swipes through the blank record. He slides across the frames in reverse, back and backward until he reaches the first second of the blank.

              “Sir, I’m afraid we have to do the protocol first—"

              Jungkook’s hand stills on the board. The frame freezes. It’s a close-up of the black Jaguar as it barely grazes Eric’s body. Jungkook zooms in. There inside the passenger seat of the car is a long, red expandable file. “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”

              Jungkook feels his blood run cold. It’s the same file he just had his hands on less than 15 minutes ago. It’s the same file he saw in his and Y/N’s jump. Y/N’s vision is true.  

              Jungkook feels his pocket vibrate and he quickly whips out his phone. However, he wasn’t able to dwell on it longer as a hard force pushes his shoulder backward, forcing Jungkook to tear his eyes off the screen.

              Yoongi glares at him, “Why are you indifferent about this? You know something about this, didn’t you? Captain Jeon!” 

              But even with his name called out loud, Jungkook couldn’t hear anything. All that registers in his mind is one single message.

              Y/N L/N:  Have you ever heard of a Sooah Kim before? (11:14 A.M.)

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Note: This story is based on Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s short story, Minority Report (2002). That being said, this series may contain spoilers for the movie so if you want to watch the movie, please do so first before reading!

A/N | Hi hons! Thank you for reading the 2nd chapter! I hope I got you guys more curious about the story hehe. Anyway, I have some announcement: I have finals for a major coming up this week so I’ll spend the next whole week studying. So, I’ll try if I can update the next chap the week after next week, on Sunday, too. But nothing is certain yet as I still have some uni stuff to do. Don’t worry, I only have 3 projects left to do to finally finish this sem. So as soon as I’m done with them, expect more frequent updates from me! 

If you guys wanna get notified as soon as I post the next chapter, I’m gonna add you all in my taglist! Just hit me up down the comments of this series’ masterlist so I can better track you all! The search function of Tumblr is messing with me and my notifs in my inbox usually come late so it’s highly probable your asks and DMs may get lost ☹

Once again, thank you for reading and giving a chance to My Time! :”)

Notes: As you know, this is a mystery fic. So, it will be most appreciated if any theories pertaining to the story be kept down the comments so I can entertain them all without spoiling our future readers! Once again, thank you so much for reading this!

All Rights Reserved 2020 © Vanaera. Reposts, modifications, and translations of content are not allowed without direct permission.

[badolmen]

@billy-hoepe @bonniebunz @softupshur, @bandtrees everybody else who liked/reblogged the first, second, and third chapter- y’all’re awesome and cool and your tags and comments inspire me to keep writing! I hope something nice happens to you this month!

“Not gonna lie Upshur, that kid’s weird,” Piper said, pulling the curtain around the table. Miles swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, hoping those shadows licking at the edge of Billy’s frame were just his sleep deprived and traumatized mind playing tricks on his eyes.

“Doesn’t say much though, seems pretty quiet,” Billie muttered, swatting Miles’ hands away as she undid his button down, the shirt sticky with half dried blood. “We don’t need to worry about him talking, do we Miles?”

“No – no, he won’t-”

“Will you?” Piper asked, voice sing song soft as she pressed stinging antiseptic solution to the stubs of his fingers. Miles flinched away, but in spite of her small stature, Piper firmly held his hand in place.

“I wouldn’t have come here if – you know I wouldn’t do anything like that, right?” His words were strained, calm forced into his face as Billie turned to a table of tools.

“You’re a – well, you were a big shot reporter, buddy,” Buddy. Piper barely noticed Miles’ breath hitch.

“Relax Miles,” Billie said, tapping the needle in her hand, bubbles floating to the top. “Pip’s just being a jerk,” She brought the needle to his hand, giving him a glance. “It’s a local anesthetic, we need to clean up those cuts, you’ll feel the pressure but not the pain,”

Miles gave a grim smile, watching Piper set out scalpels and clippers and gauze. Billie set to work at the bullet buried in his shoulder, prodding the wound cautiously.

“By the way Miles, who the hell were you fucking with? Must be big fish if you’re here and not a hospital,” Piper asked, Miles looking away and ignoring the warmth of fresh blood as she began work on his left hand.

“Mount Massive,” He managed through gritted teeth, Billie still cautiously picking at the bullet wound. Piper looked up, eyes bright with recognition.

“Oh, cool! I had a girlfriend who worked there a while ago, think she got laid off recently actually, or maybe it was maternity leave? Haven’t talked to her in a while, we aren’t that close anymore.” There was a clatter as she set a bloody tool back into the metal tray.  

“The hell were you doin’ up there? Not officially reporting ‘em or something, right? Thought you got fired or whatever after that stunt you pulled overseas,”

“Murkoff-” Miles inhaled sharply, Billie’s knife hitting a nerve. The sisters shared a glance. Piper sighed, cauterization of wounds filling the air with an all too familiar stench. There was an uncharacteristic rush to Billie’s movements as she continued to work the bullet from his shoulder.

“You two can’t come back here, got it? Soon as the sun’s up you’re on your own,” Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. Miles gave a stiff nod. “We don’t fuck with those guys, they’ve got a hand in every pocket; they’re real serious about whistleblowers and shit, they’ll ruin you, if they don’t outright kill ya,”

“They sure as hell tried,” Miles said with a dark chuckle, wincing as Piper began working on his right hand.

“Yeah, but they like to be thorough,” Piper glanced to her sister as the other woman finally pulled a chunk of bullet from Miles’ shoulder. “They’ll track you down, find everybody you talked to and do worse to them,” Miles’ eyes flashed to Piper as she snipped a jagged fingerbone to a cleaner cut. “Basically, Billie and I might be fucked for helping you,”

“I don’t – I don’t think we were followed,” Miles managed, Billie stitching his shoulder with a practiced hand. Piper gave a shrug.

“Good thing your mama’s way back in the East, wouldn’t want any of those goons visiting her,” The smaller woman said, holding one of Miles numbed hands still as she began to bandage the wounds. Miles jerked on the bench, but Billie held him down as she set a bandage to the wound on his chest, pressing against bruises and broken ribs.

“Easy, you might not be feeling much now, but tomorrow you’re gonna wish-”

“No, no, not that,” He said with a groan, already feeling the aches of his new stitches. His head looked to the curtain, the room outside very still and quiet. “He’s been talking about going back to his mom’s-”

“Don’t,” Piper said, voice soft as she took the tray of bloody tools away from the table.

“I know, but-”

“Listen, Miles, if you went to Mount Massive, found that kid, and took him…Murkoff is gonna consider you for one, a thief or kidnapper or whatever depending on how important that guy is, and two, an insurance nightmare. They’ve got a lot of money they’d rather not part with in lawsuits.”

A rhythmic knock rapped at the door. Billie glanced at her phone.

“Kev’s here,” She said, wiping blood from her hands and setting aside clean bandages. “I texted him earlier, to bring some stuff for you two, when you first knocked. Clothes, y’know? So you’re less recognizable.”

“And you told him to stop by Lee’s, right? For dinner? I’m starving,” Piper said, wrapping Miles’ hand in clean, white gauze.

“Yeah, yeah,” Billie said, pulling the curtain away and walking to the door. Miles looked to the couch, Billy’s form small and shivering. He swallowed a lump in his throat, hoping the sisters didn’t notice the darkness swarming behind the younger man’s blank eyes, the tendrils of nanites writhing across his body and blending with the shadows.

The door opened with a click, and Billy snapped out of it, the darkness dissipated by a single cough, eyes unfocused but clear.

“I got the stuff,” A new voice said, the crinkle of plastic bags accompanied by the smell of grease and spices. Kevin stepped through the door, Billie planting a kiss on her husband’s cheek. He nearly took up the whole door frame, ducking to keep from hitting his head on the light fixture that dangled in front of the door. He gave a nod to Miles, who could only give a weak smile in return.

“Gimme!” Piper squealed, Billy flinching away as the woman darted across the room to acquire a container of Chinese food. “Sorry Billy boy, a girl’s gotta eat,”

“Hold up Pip, we’ve gotta finish up with Upshur first,” Billie chided, Kevin pulling the bags of food up to the ceiling. Piper groaned, sulking back to Miles with comical disappointment. “Kev, could you, uh, hang out with Billy over there ‘til we’re done? You got some stuff for him, right?”

“Yeah, had Chris go through their things, pick out stuff they wanted to donate to the thrift store, figured this was about the same kinda charity, right?” Kev said, holding out a different grocery bag to his wife. Billie nodded at the contents.

“Cool, I’ll finish up quick, make sure Billy’s good, but then these two gotta stay the night,” She said, giving Kevin a tight smile. “Date night tomorrow night sound good?” Kevin grimaced.

“Chris’ got-”

“Right, SAT practice…damn, well, we’ll figure it out,” She pulled the curtain back across the divider, Kevin setting the bags of food on the table.

“Hey little guy,” He said, voice quiet and movements slow as he approached the couch, bag of clothes in hand. Billy recoiled at the words, shrinking deeper into the cushions. Kevin stopped walking. “Just got some stuff for ya, mind if I sit next to you?”

Billy’s eyes darted from the curtain to the giant of a man. Where did Mom go? How did he find her if he never left?

The man repeated his question. Billy nodded. It was better to let him do what he wanted. Safer. It couldn’t hurt worse than the ache in his chest.

“Here,” He said, setting the bag of clothes between them. “Chris is pretty big for their age and you seem a little small for yours so there should be some stuff in there that’ll fit you. Miles will just have to make do with the baggier stuff.” His smile was encouraging, gentle. “Sorry if it’s a little…unique. Chris has been going through some phases lately, but that just means more variety for you,”

Billy slowly leaned toward the bag, eyes catching glimpses of clothes. Stripes, plaids, polka dots, and sequins. Crop tops, flannels, button downs, sweaters, and vests. Shorts, jeans, cargo pants, sweat pants, and skirts. He glanced back to Kevin.

“Take what you want, it’s for you and Upshur, the rest is going to Good Will,”

Billy sifted through the clothes, trying to remember what he liked. When was the last time he picked out a shirt? Asked for a new pair of pants? Most of his clothes at home were hand-me-downs. He knew he didn’t like the uniform they gave him at the asylum. And that he didn’t like the shorts he wore in the cold place.

He liked Miles’ jacket. It was warm. It smelled like coffee and smoke, under the sickening scent of blood. Billy picked out clothes like that. Clothes that reminded him of Miles. A pale button down with plaid patterning. A cozy blue flannel. Worn but comfortable looking jeans. Soft socks with rubber grippers along the sole.

Kevin had taken out a container of food, picking at the contents with chop sticks as Billy sorted through the articles and compiled his favorites around him. On the table, Miles slowly sat up, blood and grime wiped away to reveal a patchwork of stitches and bruises and clean bandages left behind from the sisters’ work.

“You look like shit Upshur,” Kev said, gesturing with his chopsticks and eyes settling on the man’s hands as the reporter tried to push himself to his feet.

“Take it easy,” Billie hissed, grabbing his good shoulder. “Let’s get you to the couch. We’ll give Billy boy a quick check up then let you two rest up. You’re gonna need it.” The woman walked Miles to the seat, Kev reaching over Billy to pass on the bags full of clothes to the dazed patient.

“Kid, leave your stuff on the couch and come over here so we can get a better look at you,” Piper’s voice was friendly. Soft and inviting. And every fiber of Billy’s body screamed that it was a trap. Another test. Soft voices always led to numbing needles and suffocating quiet and then he would be underwater again, drowning but not drowning and breathing without air –

“Easy kiddo,” Kev’s voice rumbled beside him, a hand gripping his shoulder. Billy’s own hands were shaking, pins and needles loosening his grip on the clothes in his grasp. Darkness flickered at the edges of his vision, the ghostly afterimages from the Engine blurry against the white light from the makeshift operating room.

“Billy,” Miles. He knew Miles. Miles was safe. Never a trick. Never a lie. Not yet, at least. “You need to breathe,” He couldn’t see Miles, his vision crawling with those half corporeal insects that always seemed to eat his eyes and burrow into his skull. But Miles was there, a hardly felt warmth beside him. And Billy needed to breathe.

With a shaky inhale, chest aching for air, Billy blinked tears from his eyes, vision refocusing on his numb, shaking hands. And Miles’ hand, a mangled mess of bandages and bruises, gently rubbing some sensation back into Billy’s unfeeling palm. He lifted his eyes slowly, Piper and Billie and Kev seemingly unperturbed by the disturbance.

“They’re gonna help, okay? Not gonna hurt you,” Miles forced a smile, nodding to the sisters. Billy looked over Miles’ face, not quite meeting his eyes as he scanned the fresh stitches and bandages.

Eventually, he managed a stiff nod. Miles hadn’t hurt him yet, and the icy shadow that breathed down his back when the doctors lied and the nurses muttered under their breath was a distant chill. The people here were yet to pose a threat to him, at least, as far as the static specter in the back of his mind was concerned.  Billy stood on shaking legs, shuffle toward the waiting women.

“Easy, easy,” Piper said, hands hovering around him without making contact as she guided him to the operating room. “Can you sit here on your own?” Billy managed himself up onto the cold, metal table, his own body far away and actions automatic. He focused on his breathing, chest hollow and rattling with every exhale.

“It’s alright, you aren’t the first to freak out, won’t be the last,” Billie muttered, a sincere attempt of comfort him somewhere in her tone. He could hardly hear her, keeping his focus on Miles, who seemed equally anxious that they finish looking over Billy’s bruises and cuts.

“You’re in rough shape kid, but you’re doin’ a helluva lot better than Upshur,” Piper said, smile across her face, hands gentle as they held Billy’s head up to force his eyes to meet her own. “A lot of water, some food, and sleep will do you a lot of good.”

“Really?” Miles’ voice was hoarse, a whisper in the quiet room that drew all eyes to him. “He’s okay?”

“Far as I can tell,” Piper said, giving the journalist a shrug. “Physically speaking. Bruises, cuts, easy antiseptic wash and band aid. Throat is raw as hell but the best he can do is take it easy.” She guided Billy back to the couch, her hand gently resting on his shoulder.

“We need to clean up for the night, then we’ll put the lights out. I’ll take first watch,” Billie supplied as she stepped back into the operating room, moving a tray of bloodied tools to the sink. “Get some fresh clothes on and get some rest.”

“I’ve got to go make sure Chris’ sleeping well. I’ll pick you two up in the morning,” Kev said, pulling his wife into a hug before heading back to the door. “Night,”

“Night,” The sisters echoed back, softly rummaging back in the operating room.

Miles was already asleep, breathing deep and slow, broken ribs aching against bandaged skin. He looked cold. Billy shed the blood stained jacket, placing it over Miles’ sleeping form. The clothes were warm and dry and smelled of fabric softener. Mom never used fabric softener; it was too expensive to buy regularly.

But there was something comforting in the floral scent, the freshness of the clothes compared to the dingy couch beneath him. How long had it been since he had dressed himself? Without doctors and nurses buzzing around him like anxious mosquitoes, needles at the ready full of sedative?

He curled into a ball at the opposite end of the couch, listening to Miles’ breathing and the sisters’ quiet murmurs. Eventually the room grew quiet. And the light went out.

[comradecrossing]

hi do you have any tips/recs for someone who’s just starting new leaf? i had it a long time ago but i stopped playing, and now i want to start playing again but i don’t remember it well 🙈

Hi! This might be long but! When I restarted this last time I was worried it would get boring real fast like with my first save, so I planned out as much as I possibly could ahead of time.

Think of a theme that makes you happy! Do you love witchy/fairy things? A specific color? maybe a season? particular villager animal? Aliens??? If you can figure out a theme you can build around (and it can be ANYTHING) then you will have much more confidence when you first step foot in your new town!

Now I’m gonna use my town as reference, so, I really like the Witchy/Fairy aesthetic and I knew immediately thats what i was going to do. I’m bad at town names, but i like Pokemon and remembered they have a fairy town, so I looked it up and got my name and figured why stop there? That’s how Laverre City became one of my sole inspirations for my town. I was inspired to restart because of hackers so even though I cant hack, I think about things I might like to do, or really want to do when/if i ever can and i have some big ideas lol im so sad. So ultimately i settled on a fall themed town (not perpetual fall but looks best in fall and the dreamcode will be of the town in fall) with lots of pink cosmos and regular saplings to give off a resemblance to Laverre City :)I then looked at a lot of forest and dreamy type towns to get some inspiration like mushroom rings, layout ideas, and items or PWPs to use. I also checked sites like animal crossing wikia to make a list of PWPs I might like in my town and chose 30 possible options (you can only build 30) and check the space requirements.

Once I start for real with a vague idea of where I want to put things I look at all the maps available and if they don’t have specific traits i want (secret beach, desirable town tree location, diving cliff, ponds in places that wont get in the way of projects and landscaping ideas, good spot for the cafe, etc) I restart until a map comes up that I like. Once I arrive in town its time to check my native fruit and rock locations and make sure its up to my standards, and if a resident is important for you to have/not have make sure to check the map too!

Once you get a town you’re happy with and you’ve found the perfect place to call home its time to get serious >: |It’s time for your first shovel and axe.Now, I have always been anti-axe in previous games but this last save changed me. I got a hold of that first axe and chopped down every tree that wasn’t a southern cedar tree! (southern cedars are only possible at the start! If you plant them they’ll only grow in the North, thats the top half of your town.) Now your town will feel barren at first and this is the ugliest stage but also one of the funnest -imo- so lets open up your patterns and get started. Now that you have a blank canvas use your green & blue tiles to signify trees/bamboo and bushes, you can even redesign it and write “T” or “B” respectably and start laying them out. You can also use the Yellow to lay down where you want PWPs (make sure to surround two spaces further than the project requires. a 3x3 fountain should look more like a 5x5 area to ensure no one moves directly next to where you want to build). You should have lots of fruit piled up (remember to stack them) so you can layout bush tiles and plant fruit if you’d rather have a better idea of how its gonna look. I planted all my peaches and would later go back and replace certain ones with new fruit i acquired. Its good to have a “this is all a process” mindset because it will take a while to get your town done even if you time travel, but thats good! because the game is all about making your dream town!

So now you have a good amount of the town planned out and probably have some ideas of what to do next. The next few days will be spent checking out how things are growing and making sure you planted things in the right spots. if there’s anything you’re not liking - change it! Your town Your rules!

Now while you are waiting for things to grow and get pretty its time to gather aaaaaallllll the flowers you can find and organize them in a large free space so they are all diagonally touching (XXXX), this way you can get hybrids early on :)Make sure they are the same breed and check hybrid guides so you know which colors work best to make the hybrids you most want and make sure to water them everyday as they will wilt if you don’t have the beautiful ordinance. Hybrids are good to have for trades when you dont have much money.

After all this you should be off to a pretty good start. Try to keep in mind villagers you would like to have and try to make friends online or IRL that you can adopt from (I always post when i have some one leaving and who I am hoping to replace them with and I usually get an offer fairly quickly, even for villagers I was desperate to get out. No matter who they are someone likes them :)) But if your town is set up in a way that you’ll be devastated if your dreamie moves in that one perfectly made up spot, it might be a good idea to plot set &/ reset.Plot resetting is when you make a *NEW* character save to check and see if anyone moved in overnight, and more importantly, if they moved in an undesirable place. If this happens restart and select the new save option until the villager plots in a spot you like. Once they do that build your tent somewhere and save quit. This will make the new residents spot permanent and then you can select the new save once more and delete their home. This could take quite a while if you have lots of “open” space. “Open Space” is how I refer to non-tiled/pwp or house occupied areas and the way I go about this is covering my town in about 75% tiles and spacing out pwps to where there are as few places houses can plot in as possible. Houses wont build over tiles and will plot at least 2 spaces away from other buildings, rocks and projects and one away from clifs and ponds/rivers. They dont care however if there are trees, bamboo, items, bushes, or flowers so be sure to lay out tiles in any place at risk to being plotted on. I refer to this as “Plot Setting” as you can make 3x3 empty plots you surround with tiles which will help villagers know where to plot. If you do a good job and plot everything out just right, you’ll never have to worry about someone messing up your hard work.

Now here’s the kinda sucky part of ACNL and that is The Limitations.Annoying programmed rules that seem to only get in the way such as the 2-space rule between pwps/buildings. This can mess up your aesthetic a lot and sometimes you will have to completely replan things due to a small fact you may have overlooked or not noticed and suddenly your garden isnt looking right so im gonna name off the biggest hassles and how I have gotten around some of them.

Bush + tree + bush: You can line up 12 trees/bamboo and bushes in a line. This works both straight and diagonally. only 12. Now you can leave gaps in some places that will reset the count or do intricate designs like one cedar in the middle of 4 bushes, a line of bushes with trees spaced out directly behind, a pattern of bushes and chopped bamboo, etc get creative. Visiting others towns or looking at pics people post can help you get lots of ideas. Bushes can touch each other but trees & bamboo still have the one space between rule.

PWP 2-space rule: now I’ve already mentioned this a few times but this rule is always the one that I seem to forget when planning. YOU NEED TWO SPACES. I cant tell you how many times i have planned project locations weeks in advance only to not be able to lay them out as i wanted because I got the space requirement wrong or only left one space between other objects :/

Beach Rules: You may have seen cool towns with pwps, cedar trees and hibiscus bushes scattered around their beach and Ive got some bad news; Those are hacked towns. The only thing that can be planted on the beach naturally is coconut and banana trees, flowers, and clovers. Nothing grows on the beach, not even weeds. No pwps can be built there either, even though it was initially programmed to be possible. I currently use the space for hybrid breeding since i have no space to elsewhere ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Tear Down and Build Up: I will say though that even though only maybe 15% of my original plans came to life, my town looks way better than i had ever imagined it would. Don’t be afraid to tear things down and try out different locations or setups you might figure something out that looks amazing compared to your original plans.

Finally, while you can participate in the Happy Home Ratings, you dont have too. Decorate how ever the flip you want. Find new things to do everyday as the game can get old fast and you might get temped to Timetravel (which isnt a bad thing if thats what you want to do, but be careful you dont lose your villagers/flowers! Even though I have the Beautiful ordinance, I water all my flowers incase they pop out a hybrid. I try to earn all the badges, I visit dreamtowns for inspiration, redesign areas of my town, farm PWPs, make patterns, try hunting down items to decorate my house with, etc, this is another area where having a theme can help as you will find inspiration easier, and make you feel more immersed like you’re playing an RPG.

I’ve gone on a lot here and I have more to add but I’ve spent over an hour typing this, but let me know if you have any other questions or need clarification on anything :) I’m not gonna add pics rn but if you need photo reference send another message and I will address it separately and add it here later.

Now heres a bunch of links to help you get invested:MoriBD - A catalog of every in-game item and an option to make a wishlistHybrid Guide - By @nooklingPWP GuideVillager Adoption Further Info on Plot ResettingPWP Farming Towns/interiors I found inspirationalSome QRsHacking info (if youre interested)How to upload your screenshots & Make your screenshot pretty!

Pick the right face when you startOnce you get the QR reader (talk to sable 7 days) you can use these

Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help :)Just putting it out there too, I am always happy to help people get whatever they want/need for no cost whether it be fruits, bamboo, mushrooms, items, hybrids, etc, I will always do what I can to help you out, whether you’re just starting or on your 5th year.

[illidria]

Can you write 9 with Buccaneer who tells someone his hard childhood? You've got the choice for who is the somenone

Hey @juliaepavic, it is finally done :D

Sorry for the long hold-up, as always with fics like this I contacted my favourite guys to come over and explain things to me, so the fic can be vague, but not wrong or disrespectful. (Good news: they like my new ricecooker, bad news: I’m out of rice)

Should something have been “lost in translation”, be offensive because I used the english language wrong or didnt know a word had a second meaning, please write me, as english isnt my first language.

Warning for talked-about suicide and implied child abuse.

God, all of this sounds horrible, but I hope you like it anyway, even though it’s somewhat different from what you probably imagined.

Thank you for the prompt and.... have fun?

“Are you alone Ma’am?”

The voice sounded like it tried to soundforcibly calm, with a tension in it that spoke of fear. A man it was, clearly,but he`d heard steps of more people.

He heard his mother mutter, sounding scaredbeyond believe.

“WE ASKED YOU SOMETHING!”

The second man was fear personified,screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Please,I know nothing. I know nothing. What do you want?!”

He heard the tears in his mother’s voice,finally spilling now that he was well out of sight.

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING …? SPEAK CLEARLY, YOUSPY!”

He did not know one of the words the mansaid, but understood that it wasn’t something nice. And he called his mother aspy, his father had explained to him what that was, but he knew his mothercouldn’t be one. She wore no trench coat, she never sneaked around. And shewouldn’t be so afraid now.

“Gardner! Keep calm! Maybe she doesn’tspeak amestrian? We should call in the translator!”

The first man spoke again, so desperatelytrying to keep calm. He felt afraid himself, wanted to protect his mother fromthese men, but she`d asked him to stay in the cellar. To not make a sound,whatever happens.

“Please,please, I don’t know what you want! Please, I don’t know anything!”

He heard steps again, softer, knew that hismother had moved. And then he heard a gun. Silently he hoped that his fatherand his brothers had returned, were scaring the men away.

“God damn Gardner! Are you out of yourmind?!”

He heard scrambling feet, the first manrepeatedly shouting at his partner to help him. He could hardly do anything inhis hideout, did not understand what was happening. Had his father returned,were the men so scared because of his big gun? And why wasn’t his mother sayinganything? Was she too afraid?

“Philip, now stop it! She`s beyond helpnow. Let`s get going!”

The other man retorted, angrily, almost asdistressed as his mother had sounded a few moments ago.

“You think this is a joke Gardner?! Didn’tyou see the toys? She was a mother, has kids, no drachman spy! Just someoneliving here, scared out of her mind! And you have my word, what you`ve donetoday, will not go without consequences!”

The other man huffed, screaming right back.He heard the fear, worse than before.

“Growing soft Philip? Just because you`vegot a couple of brats of your own? Try to have me demoted, I dare you!”

A scuffle, then the sound of the door. Hewaited for ten minutes, counted to ten as often as he could stand to and thenwent upstairs.

His mother looked like she was sleeping,but did not answer when he tried to wake her. There was blood, lots of it, onher dress and on her pants and on the floor. He lay down next to her, notunderstanding what was happening.

When his fathercame home an hour later, a man in a blue uniform with him, he hadn’t understoodwhy his father started to cry.

“Who died, thatyou cut your hair? Your dignity?”

He should`veexpected things to go this way, wondered why he ever thought that it could bedifferent. He`d been given the choice after this last school year: military orback to the “reservation”, working the mines. His father let go of the bottle,straightened himself up in his chair and looked at him, like he was a stain onthe wall.

The father ofhis childhood would’ve probably understood his decision. This one didn’t.

“A friend fromthe school. Anik, Apaata’s son.”

He held hisfather’s angry gaze. He’d wanted to utilize this visit, talk to his brothers,who’d chosen differently. Wanted to speak with the elders of the community,visit some friends. Cry together with Anik’s mother, mourn the loss of oneperson more claimed by the horrors of re-education. He’d be trained in NorthCity soon, had been given family-leave by a Major, too understanding forBuccaneers liking. Time to visit would be sparse, the will to, too.

“He heard thatyou turned traitor? Probably died of the pain that it caused him! Anotherbrother of his, willing to shoot up innocents!”

His anger rose,but did nothing more than take his heart and strangle it. He`d chop firewoodlater, would relieve himself of this feeling that way. Forcefully he pulled hiseyes away from where his mother had lain. His father’s moods he’d lived withfor years, was accustomed to them when met with the teachers and “caregivers”at the boarding school. Though silently conforming in all horrible situations,he’d learned never to forget who he was. Silent rebellion, his oldest brotherhad said with a conspiratorial smile. The last two years without them, had beensilent hell.

Staying calm,something he’d never managed before to such an extent, he felt his resolvestrengthen.

“He hunghimself in the schools’ chapel.”

There was nomalicious intent inside of him, only the desire that his friends’ death shouldbe respected. And the knowledge, that his own decision was right. Anik had alwaysloved to be outside, had longed to see the sky, suffocating inside the stuffyrooms, the strange clothing, the constant disrespect to their gods. Theknowledge of what was happening to their parents and loved ones back home, howit changed them, sometimes seemed to force hands. The differences too much to take. Anik hadunderstood, that he hadn’t wanted to go back.

His father tookanother swig, silenced.

“I think there’ssomething under your feet.”

He stoppedwalking, lifted one foot after the other and looked at his soles. Turningaround to her, he shrugged.

“Nothing out ofthe ordinary.”

She let it slide,sure she’d seen something, but willing to wait until she had him close. Watchedhim walk around, towelling his long hair after a shower, pulling on someboxers, shaving with the bathroom-door ajar. When he finally plopped down nextto her on the bunk, she didn’t even try to hide her goal.

He laughed.

“There’s nothingstuck to my feet, Liv.”

Making sureanyways, her fingers ghosted over thin scars, looking him in the eye, an unsaidquestion in them that he could decline without a problem. He sat himself downmore comfortably, watched her like a hawk when she settled against the otherside of the bed, watching him equally as closely.

“You already knowthat I went to a boarding school, thanks to an education act, endorsed by themilitary?”

She nodded,remembering their talk well, stuck in a cave with him and some other cubs,their patrol seeking shelter from a sudden snowfall. A flask had made therounds and some talked, among them Buccaneer and one of the cubs, both ofmountain-tribe descent.

All children ofthe tribespeople were to be schooled in boarding schools, schedule and contentschosen by the amestrian military. The lands of their families were heavily cutback, fenced and their usual income, caribou breeding and herding, seized. Hisfather worked in a mine now, as had the other cubs. Access to alcohol, usuallyreserved for high festivities, became plentiful. The depressed episodes ofmany, started through the fighting that brought on these changes, theoccupation through the military and the many deaths following it, deepened withan addiction adding to them.

Word of mouthwas, that the boarding schools were hell. But that day they hadn’t talked aboutit, the cub panicking at the notion alone. She`d made it possible for him totalk to a psychiatrist in North City, after pulling some strings. Miles andBuccaneer had alerted her to more cubs, in need of help. She’d done her best tomake it possible.

“They did that?”

She tried to keepa neutral tone, wanted him to tell his story in peace. Did not want to colourhis words with her emotions, expectations.

His usuallycheerful voice, sounded uncharacteristically grim.

“We had to get upat a certain time every morning. If you weren’t up, they`d hit your feet with acane. I overslept sometimes.”

She felt sick toher stomach, understanding how deep, how hard they must’ve hit, for the scarsto be so stark against his skin. And to think that he was a kid at the time.

He shrugged.

“It’s not theworst thing, really. Are you sure you want to hear more?”

She wasn’t, but nodded anyway.

Braiding hisson’s hair was one of his most favourite past-times.

They’d raisedtheir kids like the wild mix they were, running between traditions and culturesand their best interests. Valentin right now, was no exception. With the thickblack hair of his father, so tall that he already towered over his mother, yetwith a face more angular, softer and beautiful, that many turned in the streetupon seeing him. He usually shied away, not liking the attention,self-conscious beyond believe since hitting puberty. He was their second, theirmiddle one, fifteen and old enough to ask about and understand the bad things.

The scars on thesoles of his father’s feet. The trips to his grandfather, living close to theborder, his father and uncles always flinching when he opened a bottle ofwater. Why a certain street in North City was avoided and why they took part inrituals to free trapped spirits at least once a year.

Why his fatherhad been so staunchly against sending him to a boarding school, even thoughhe’d desperately wanted to go.

They’d talkedabout that, often while he braided his son’s hair, proud that the boy knew somuch, wanted to know so much, understood his father’s past. Took what helearned and in turn thought on a broader scale, discussed more informed andwanted to help those that had to endure such things. He was a compassionateboy, would grow up to be a good man and a good person.

Halfway throughthe long mass of hair, his son’s questions started to pour.

“Someone atschool asked me today, why I don’t cut my hair short.”

A slight smilecame to Buccaneers face, the sob-smile his wife called it, content andsentimental all at once.

“And what did yousay?”

He saw his sonshrug.

“That we only cutit short after a great loss, when someone we love dies for example. Or whensomething bad for the whole community happens and you want to show that ithurts you, even though it might not afflict you directly.”

Buccaneer nodded,approvingly. His son had listened and understood. Yet, he’d not gotten to hisquestion.

“You rememberthat well. And what is it that you want to know?”

His son squirmedbefore him, seeming like an adult a moment ago, now more like his littlebrother, equipped with more energy than a normal human should probably have.

“Grandpa told me,that when you joined the military at sixteen, you cut off all of your hair.”

He heard the“why?” in his son’s words, took his time before answering. Calmly he spoke,pausing often, taking care with his words. Making sure to answer all asked, andun-asked questions.

“Father probablydoesn’t remember, as it was so long ago. A friend of mine died, after we werefinally discharged from the boarding school. I choose the military, because Ididn’t want to live in the occupied lands. Didn’t want to become a miner,either. Maybe I was equipped with a good portion of idealism too.”

Chuckling, helistened to his son laugh, somewhat raspy, voice breaking often at the moment. Hespoke some more, putting the finishing touches to Valentin’s braid, the boysurely wanting to get going soon.

“My brothersthought that I’d forsaken our way of life, cut my hair because of that. I thinkfather thinks that to this day, but that wasn’t the reason. My friend, Anik washis sacred name, committed suicide. He could not piece together the things hisparents had taught him, with what the people at the boarding school taught him.He couldn’t fathom that he was right just the way he was, not some abominationbecause he was a tribesman. I’d tried my very best to help him, but it hadn’tbeen enough. He hung himself, in the school’s chapel. I shaved my head afterthat. Do you understand now?”

Cutting of yourhair meant mourning, shaving it off signified guilt, Valentin knew that.

“Sometimes we can’tdo anything, even if we want to, right?”

His son turned,braid finished, taking it in his hands, playing with it. Avoiding his father’sgaze after his wistful question.

Buccaneer nodded.

“Sometimes you can’tdo anything, sometimes you shouldn’t do anything, and sometimes, you just shouldbe a friend and listen to what people say, ask if they are alright and do whatyou can.”

And finally, theblue eyes of his son, so much looking like his mothers, found his. He smiled atValentin, who smiled back slightly. Before he could say something, the boythrew his arms around him in a tight hug.

“Thank you, Dad!”

He hugged himback just as tight.

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

~(Oh wow look at that another untitled fic)~ [Pre-Road Trip Fic; 4500 Words]

[ISEB Author’s Note: Apologies for the delay on this one—I had hoped to have it out by this time last week, but WonderCon threw a wrench in my best-laid plans (as conventions often do). This story features the same redhead of my past Ignis fics, which means there’s some contextual references that might perplex you if you’re new to The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; I’d offer to link those fics here, but Tumblr has an annoying habit of omitting my posts from their proper tag searches when I do, so my suggestion would be to simply scroll back and locate the two other untitled Pre-Road Trip fics I’ve written in the last several weeks. (And no, the redhead doesn’t have a name; at this point it’s turned into somewhat of a running joke, so she likely never will.)

I fear my smutty writing chops might be getting a little stale, so another apology is in order if reading this feels a bit like déjà vu (I doubt anything will ever top that breakfast table fic I wrote a while back, sadly). I’d like to revisit the redhead at some point in the future, since this time frame is ripe for all sorts of headcanons, but my next planned story is an Ignis x Male Suitor fic; after that, it’s onto some NSFW Blind!Ignis goodness, in addition to catching up on what’s left of my inbox. As always, my eternal thanks goes out to everyone who has liked, followed, or reblogged my meager Specs offerings; while I can’t make any promises, I have a little special something in mind regarding everyone’s favorite strategist when I reach 500 followers!]

Ludicrously NSFW

She tries never to fall asleep after they’ve made love; four o’clock in the morning comes rather abruptly if the redhead lets herself nod off in the aftermath of their relations.

But he wore her out a bit more than usual this evening, so she lingered in his bed and set the alarm on her cellular for a quarter of to give herself enough time to brush her teeth before she needed to be out of his apartment when the next change of guard took place. And now that alarm was pealing in her ears, even though it felt like her head had just hit the pillow moments earlier.

She fumbles through the darkness to quiet the annoyance, and is relieved when it finally falls silent. She then reaches for the lamp on the nightstand and blinks away the sleep from her eyes as the room brightens; her hand moves absentmindedly to the space next to her, but she knows even before she clutches the empty sheets that he isn’t there. She has never witnessed the strategist in a state of unconsciousness before, not even at four o’clock in the morning, not even in the privacy of his own home, not even after they’d made love three times in as many hours and she can barely stand upright, much less resist the urge to immediately pass out afterward.

She heaves a sigh; she shouldn’t really care that he’s never shown the slightest bit of vulnerability around her—although the requisite of sleep is scarcely a sign of weakness—but she does just the same. Maybe it’s because Ignis Scientia looks at her differently when he’s not wearing his spectacles, and she wonders whether she is seeing a side of him few ever have. Or maybe it’s because that facet of him is just beyond her reach, and she’s carelessly allowed herself to grow too curious about him in the first place.

She casts aside her disappointment along with the comforter and searches for the clothes he liberated from her in the heat of the moment. She finds her blouse and trousers at the foot of the bed easily enough, but her panties have somehow made it all the way to the ceremonial daggers hanging on the far wall. As she disentangles the black lace from one of the gilded blades, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee swirls in her nostrils; she’s been over to his apartment so many times now that she’s beginning to think he’s intentionally conditioning her to associate him with the smell of Ebony.

She manages to dress herself in spite of her drowsy stupor, and wanders out into the kitchen; the lights are on, but he’s not there, either. Instead, she finds a pot of coffee percolating on the stove, and quickly pours herself a cup before the temptation of more sleep lures her back into his bedroom and under his warm blankets. It’s only when the hot liquid pools down her throat and stirs her senses that she notices the sound of water splashing from inside the bathroom.

So she follows her ears, and stops tentatively at the door. When she receives no response to her light rapping, she opens it gingerly a pokes her head inside. “Ignis?”

His lanky silhouette is visible behind the frosted glass of the walk-in shower. “Morning, Darling. Did you find the Ebony I left out for you?”

“I did, thank you.” She steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her, then sets her steaming mug down on the sink. “I seem to remember asking you not to call me that.”

“My apologies. It’s just that I call all my lovers ‘Darling’—makes it easier not having to recall every one of their names when there are so many of them.”

She snorts as she reaches for the sole item she keeps at his residence—a spare toothbrush. “Just how many lovers do you have at any given moment? Or is that another one of your little mysteries?”

“Could be one, could be a hundred. Who knows?”

She then squeezes a dollop of paste onto the toothbrush, shoving it into her mouth as she turns on the tap. “It certainly isn’t that many,” she mumbles. “There isn’t enough room in your medicine cabinet for a hundred toothbrushes.”

“Is that jealousy I detect in your voice?”

“Hardly. I just think I would’ve sensed a slight drop in your raging libido by now if you were keeping a plethora of secret paramours from me.”

The sound of water splashing against the tiles drowns out whatever witty response he might’ve had, and she finishes up with the task of brushing her teeth before turning off the faucet and glancing back at the shower. After a moment, she tiptoes over to the sliding glass door and opens it a crack.

She’s somewhat surprised to find that the strategist doesn’t wear his ever-present glasses even while showering, half expecting him to peer over at her through two foggy lenses. But his face is sans spectacles, his back turned toward her, and he’s gliding a razor over one cheek without the help of a mirror. When he doesn’t appear to be aware of her surreptitious spying, she resigns herself to indulging in the sight of his sculpted and dripping backside.

“If you think I don’t notice your ogling,” he says after a time, “then you underestimate my hearing capabilities. I’m nearsighted, not deaf.”

Her face immediately flushes hot, and she moves to close the sliding door. But he has it barred from the other side with his foot, and he rinses his razor off under the stream of water before finally turning to face her. “It’s fine. Just thought you’d like to know you aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.”

He has never been particularly modest around her, and right now is no different; he props a hand on one hip, his nudity on full display for her viewing pleasure. “Noted,” she says, not quite averting her gaze.

He turns his attention back to the job of scraping away the stubble of his other cheek. “I presume you’ll be leaving shortly?”

“Soon, yes,” she murmurs, and then furrows her brow. “How in Eos are you able to shave without a mirror? I can’t imagine trying to reach the back of my knees with my eyes closed.”

“My vision’s already poor as it is, and it’s only worsened as I’ve gotten older.” He gives one last tug across his jawline and feels around for any rough patches he may have missed, then rinses his razor off again before replacing it on a caddy near the shower head. “Might as well get used to doing it by touch before I’ve gone completely blind.”

“Why are you even taking a shower at this Astral-forsaken hour? Didn’t you sleep at all while I was in bed?”

“No, but I like to get an early jump on the day. There’ll be plenty of time for me to catch a few winks later.”

She frowns. “When?”

“Oh, you know. During council meetings. When I’m waiting around for Noct to drag himself out to the Regalia.” He dunks his head under the stream of water and slicks back his tawny hair. “It’s easy to get some shuteye when I’m sparring against the likes of you.”

Her green orbs narrow at him when he tosses her a wry grin. “Awfully cheeky this morning, aren’t we? I ought to spank you for that.”

“Go on, then. See what happens.”

She briefly considers following through with her threat, until he leans over and plants a damp kiss on her cheek. He then turns back toward the shower head, and she moves to close the sliding glass door; at the last moment—and against her better judgement—she quickly reopens it and directs a outstretched palm aimed squarely for his left buttock.

If she thought she had a daemon’s chance in daylight at catching the strategist unaware, however, she is sorely mistaken; he intercepts her wrist mid-strike without hesitation, and she has only a heartbeat to register the malevolent smirk on his face before he is pulling her into the shower with him and directly under the flow of hot water.

“You wretch!” she yelps. “You know bloody well I don’t keep a spare wardrobe at your apartment!”

She dances away from the oncoming torrent, but it’s too late; her clothes are already drenched, her red hair plastered to her forehead like a drowned rat. “Curiosity killed the Coeurl,” he quips. “It’s not my fault you have the reflexes of a dying Flan.”

She clenches her fists and throws a halfhearted punch at him; he deflects her second assault as easily as the first, and draws her closer under the shower head. “Really, Ignis,” she growls. “You’re acting ridiculous.”

But his long arms are wrapping themselves around her shoulders, his bare chest pressing up against her shivering body, and she can feel the hackles on her neck lower when he touches his lips to her ear. “Come now, it’s only a bit of water.”

Any expectations she had of leaving before the four o’clock guard change evaporate with the steam of the shower when his fingers drift toward the closures of her tunic; his mouth is at her neck now, his warm breath mingling with the hot water trickling down her tresses. “How are you not utterly exhausted?” she asks. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

He releases the final button and peels her out of the wet garment. “Having trouble keeping up? You’re welcome to bow out of our arrangement at any time.”

It’s less of a demand and more of a challenge; she’s certainly never felt the least bit obligated to entertain his advances. “You didn’t even let me finish my Ebony.”

“I’ll brew a fresh pot later,” he murmurs, and reaches around her torso to tackle the clasp of her undergarment.

The rhythmic sound of water hitting the floor around their feet echoes the beat of her rising pulse; he guides her against the tiled wall as he discards the sheer article and drags his lips across her collarbone. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, relishing in the sensation of his strong hands massaging her breasts; at the back of her mind, she surmises there are worse ways to be woken up in the morning.

His fingers then move south and lower the zipper of her soaking trousers, just enough for him to slip a hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels him penetrate her folds, and he covers her parted mouth with his own to stifle her gasps. Her hands search for something to hold onto, but there isn’t much to grab; his smooth chest is still slick with soap, his fingers resolutely occupied with teasing her sex, so she settles for pressing a palm firmly against the growing rigidity between his legs.

There was something oddly tranquil about moments like this with him in the early morning twilight, with nothing but the sounds of running water and her soft moans to break the silence of the otherwise sleepy apartment complex. He drops to his knees and grips at the sides of her legs, stripping her of both her pants and underwear in one deft maneuver; relieved of the last of her sopping clothes—and feeling newly awakened—she reaches for his damp hair and sifts through the feathery strands of his temples.

But her fingers automatically tug back on his scalp when he nuzzles the sensitive spot between her legs. “Darling,” she says, entirely aware that she is breaking her own rule, “you don’t have to do that. There are other ways of making me happy that don’t involve the risk of drowning.”

His ears evidently don’t work as well as he claimed, and the water cascading down her hips and around his mouth appears to have no discernible effect on his breathing cycle, because he ignores her caution and continues his delightful probing with a rough tongue. Her knees buckle slightly when he presses a finger inside of her, and she clutches at his shoulders to steady herself.

Perhaps the palace rumors of him entertaining the company of the men were true, and that a handful of his hundred secret paramours were equipped with a sword rather than a sheath, but the redhead is wholly convinced that the strategist has a sixth sense when it comes to pleasuring the female form. Because he isn’t focused solely on just her sex; his hands are everywhere at once, and when his strong fingers aren’t buried within her warm flesh, they’re gliding over her belly, gripping her buttocks, lightly pinching her nipples and eliciting a cry from her lungs. It’s the kind of full-body attention that makes her nub ache and her head swim with delirium, and had the tiles not been slick with soap, she might’ve very well climbed the walls of the shower like a Wyvern out of hell.

The old familiar fire in her lower abdomen is roaring now, and at edge of her hazy thoughts she is reminded of all the times she’s sparred against him; he is as precise with his tongue as he is with a set of daggers, predicting just how her body will react to his touch as easily as he parries her lance, and no amount of writhing beneath his erotic torture can seemingly deflect his advances. For the redhead knows that when Ignis Scientia sets his sight on a goal, he is on a single-minded mission toward fulfilling the duties relegated to him; Woe to the Astrals should they ever get in his way, she thinks.

Her hoarse pants mingle with the echo of water hitting the tiles, but she can’t hear anything over the sound of her own pulse screaming in her ears. She has half a mind to leverage a knee directly across his jaw if he doesn’t conclude this delightful misery soon, because the gentle way he is raking his teeth back and forth over her tender hood is becoming borderline intolerable, and the hands he has clasped around her waist are thwarting her attempts at escape. As the pressure inside her nears its tipping point, she can almost imagine him uttering the phrase he uses when supervising his pupils in the Citadel’s fitness center—One last push should suffice—at the back of her mind.

It’s only when her orgasm crosses its threshold and her arms flail desperately for something tangible to grab hold of that she realizes there’s a reason mother nature intended for copulation to occur in a horizontal position with all four limbs in contact with a stable surface; were it not for his strong fingers gripping her hips and bracing against her violent bucks, she might’ve split the back of her head open on the wet floor by now. The hot water pouring down her neck and shoulders matches the warmth spreading throughout her abdomen, and she stands rigid against the tiled wall for several numb moments before he draws himself upright and silences the last of her whimpers with a kiss.

He then brushes a lock of wet hair away from her face and gazes down at her through earnest eyes; she knows it’s up to her whether they continue this twilight dalliance of theirs, because Ignis has rarely ever proven covetous in his desires. He’s a giver, always giving, always making sure the needs of others are met before his own, whether it’s to the crown prince and his comrades, or to his pupils, or especially to her. That was just the person he was, and although she doesn’t quite understand the motives behind his undying loyalty to the citizens of Lucis, she recognizes when he needs a gentle push to indulge in his own simple requests.

So she turns away from him and places her palms on the frosted glass doors, because returning his generous favor doesn’t mean she has to risk breaking her neck in a fit of passion, and keeping two feet firmly planted on the floor is likely the safest bet. Her eyes flutter shut when she feels his fingers trace the outline of her spine before he moves to cover her hands with his own; his lips graze her ear as he whispers her name—not Darling, but her real one—and gooseflesh ripples across her skin when he leans his taut chest against her back.

The hot water cascading down both their bodies is nothing compared to the searing heat she experiences when he presses himself inside of her. She tightens her fingers around his and lets out a gasp, but all evidence of her ardor is lost in the echoes of the shower. His response is more subdued; his lips are at her neck now, his teeth nipping gently at the soft flesh of her shoulder, and he pushes himself more fully inside of her when she tilts her hips up against his slender waist.

His nimble hands then drift down to encircle her torso and caress her breasts; she shudders as he begins to move his iron-clad hardness within her walls, and her hands slide down the shower doors, leaving behind a trail of streaky fingerprints on the foggy glass. She gnaws on the inside of her cheek with each of his methodical thrusts, forcing herself to be patient, forcing herself to allow him to take his time, willing the urge to scream out in ecstasy away, even when all she really wants right now is for him to prove he is prone to the weaknesses of ordinary men by ramming her hard up against the tiled walls.

She doesn’t have to be patient for very long, however; his human side is showing, because his movements are becoming less restrained, his gentle nips turning into more insistent love bites. He reaches down between her legs and massages his long fingers against her sex; the flesh there is still sensitive from his earlier ravaging, and she can’t quite stifle a cry of pain mingled with pleasure as he drives his hips against her backside. Her palms slip from the door when his thrusts meet the edge of her resistance, so she resolves to press her entire body against the frosted glass to stabilize herself.

Suddenly, his movements cease. He retrieves his hand from her thighs and withdraws from her, taking a step backward under the shower head. She glances over her shoulder at him, perplexed; he does this sometimes, halting abruptly near the apex of their mutual momentum, for reasons not quite apparent to her other than the strange expression of remorse on his face.

“Apologies,” he says, as the hot water trickles down his chiseled cheeks.

She turns to face him and frowns. “What ever for?”

He gestures to the marks of her nose and lips imprinted onto the foggy glass. “It seems I let myself get a bit carried away. I know you’re tired—we can finish this another time.”

Damn him for being so selfless, she thinks. “I’m fine, really.”

“It’s all right. It was impolite of me to get your clothes wet—if we stop now, there’s a chance you can still make it out of here before the next change of guard, although you’ll have to leave with a damp wardrobe.”

“Ignis,” she pleads, as she closes the distance between them, “I don’t want you to stop. Not ever.”

Ah, there it is—that look. The one he gives her when he’s not wearing his spectacles, reserved only for her and the few people who have managed to break through his aloof defenses long enough to witness the humanity behind his enduring stoicism. Something changes in his green eyes; the strategist may present a facade of calculating coldness to the world and everyone around him, but the redhead knows that Ignis Scientia’s blood runs as hot as Ifrit.

He traces tentative fingers across her left cheek, then leans over and kisses her fully on the mouth. She can feel his erection still hard as a rock pressed against her belly, and she snakes her arms around his neck as she chases after his tongue. His temperature is rising along with his fervor; the electricity running through her veins channels the heat of his wet skin, and in a deft maneuver that belied a remarkable amount of strength, he grasps at her thighs and lifts her up off the floor entirely.

Her back is planted firmly against the tiled wall of the shower, her ankles locked fiercely around his narrow waist, and when he buries his warmth inside of her, she is unable to contain the cry of rapture that escapes her lips. Had she been in a more coherent mental state, she might’ve had cause for concern; her build was more athletic than waif-like, and his wiry frame wasn’t the obscenity of muscles like Gladiolus Amicitia, either. One wrong move and they may both wind up with severed spinal cords, and death by drowning—in a half inch of water, no less—wasn’t precisely the way she had expected to meet the Draconian.

But at the edge of her mind, she knows she is safe in his arms; his grip over her legs is secure, his cadence steady, and when he covers her mouth hungrily with his own, her worries of tasting the floor tiles melt away with the water circling the drain around their feet. Her spine is braced against the wall, which leaves her arms free to wander—and wander they do, her hands clutching at his biceps and her fingernails digging into the soft tissue of his shoulders with each deliberate thrust.

For someone who was hefting the mass equivalent of a small Voretooth across his hips, Ignis’ face is surprisingly composed; he’s not afraid to look at her as he drives himself ever deeper into her warm body, and she longs to get lost in the depths of his eyes. But there is something there, something she can’t quite put her finger on, some particular wheel that is turning in his head and driving him slowly toward madness, because the way he has his jaw clenched is not so much a sign of his intense focus on the task at hand, but of a man who is precariously close to the point of no return.

She can feel his rigidity strengthening inside her, his heartbeat pounding furiously against his ribcage, and she can sense the quickening of his breath in his lungs. Her breaks her gaze and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers as he resigns himself to the inevitable; his hips tremble through his final throes, and he climaxes quietly—just as he always does—while his fingers tighten and relax around the back of her knees in time with the pulsing of his spreading seed.

For a long moment, the only motion coming from within the shower is the water pouring out of the faucet; the redhead and the strategist are locked in a statuesque embrace, as if the two have succumbed to enemy petrification. Ignis eventually releases his vice grip over her thighs, and she slides carefully down the tiled wall until her feet have returned safely to this plane of existence. It’s only a small mercy that he touches his lips to hers one last time before his features recede back into passiveness; her heart aches when the look of longing in his eyes disappears, and he moves away from her to open the sliding glass door.

“I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer,” he says, wrapping a towel hanging on a nearby hook around his glistening waist. “They ought to be ready before the eight o’clock guard change, if you don’t mind waiting a few more hours.”

“Sure thing,” she replies, not quite concealing the melancholy in her voice.

He then plucks her cold cup of coffee from off the sink. “If you want to finish showering, I’ll brew a fresh pot of Ebony. It’ll be ready when you get out.”

“Thank you.”

And then he’s gone, stepping out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him, and she’s left standing alone under the stream of hot water. She knows it’s pointless to begrudge his remoteness—it was all part of their agreement when she initially involved herself with the strategist—so she reaches for a bottle of shampoo instead and consoles her sudden despondency by replaying the events of the last several minutes in her head.

The aroma of coffee percolating on the stove greets her when she finally exits the bathroom wearing a plush bathrobe. His bathrobe, to be precise; he left it out for her when he opted for a towel, and she surmises that even in his heightened state of indifference that always seemed to follow in the afterglow of their lovemaking, his heart wasn’t entirely made of stone. She treads lightly toward the kitchen and sees his lanky form leaning against the countertop, fully dressed, bespectacled, and monitoring the color of the brewing Ebony.

“Would you consider inspecting the perimeter of the complex before I leave?” she asks, as she runs a towel through her damp hair. “I’d just as soon avoid an awkward conversation with the crown prince should he happen to wake up earlier than usual.”

Her brow furrows when she receives no response; it isn’t until she moves further into the kitchen that she notices the dark liquid heating on the stove is at nearly a full boil, and her eyes dart over to the motionless figure standing beside it.

It takes all the willpower she can muster not to burst into audible giggles; Ignis’ eyes are closed behind his glasses, and his chest rises and falls beneath his shirt in a peaceful rhythm. The man literally sleeps standing up, she thinks. Like an Astral-forsaken Spiracorn.

She supposes that lays the palace rumors of him having a magitek generator in place of a brain to rest once and for all, although what to do with him now was another question entirely. For a moment, she simply appreciates the sight of his uncharacteristic humanity; the requisite of sleep was scarcely a sign of weakness, after all, and the features that were so often lined with the weight of the burdens he carried were now blissfully serene. Eventually, she opts not to disturb him, and simply tiptoes over toward the stove to turn the range off.

She then glances at him one last time—his chin is resting against his chest, his glasses drooping slightly across the bridge of his nose—before moving back toward the bedroom. It would be another thirty minutes or more before her clothes were dry, and another few hours before she could leave his apartment besides. Above all else, she was bone tired; whether she truly could keep up with the strategist was still out for debate, so she sets the alarm on her cellular for a quarter of eight and silently prays she’s satiated his desire for intimate activities at least for one morning.

[the-lady-ren]

Can you please write me a short Phaslo fantasy where Kylo discovers that Phasma's part mermaid? Like he hears her singing in the bath and sees the tail?

Hello! Oh boy! I am not sure at all that this turned out in a way that either of us expected it, but, I firmly believe in going where the story leads. It’s long-ish, and as I’m always on mobile, I don’t know how to throw in a Read More. If anyone knows how to help my technologically lacking self, I would greatly appreciate it.

I hope you like it! Thanks for this amazing prompt and for breaking me out of my comfort zone. 💜

The dream was happening again…deep green all around, shafts of sunlight like curtains fluttering in the deep. And that voice, all encompassing, hypnotizing, penetrating. Like a choir of blessed children. Kylo wakes in the pre-dawn greyness, rubbing his eyes, hitting the alarm clock with a fumbling hand. When the piercing alarm stops he sits up, raking thick fingers through bed messy hair and sighs. How many times had he had that same dream now? Six, seven? Unusual, certainly. Kylo couldn’t remember a time when he remembered any of his dreams, let alone having recurring dreams. Swinging his long legs over the sagging side of the narrow bed, he places bare feet on the floor, rising up and out of bed to get ready for the day.

This morning is cold, the kind of cold that numbs you to your bones, freezing the mucus in your nose and making you cough with the first breath you take outside. He pads around the small apartment, the worn wood floor numbing his large feet as he pulls on the clothes that will hopefully keep him warm for the rest of his long day. At sea the wind will be more biting so layers are important. Base layer, fitting close to the skin, thermals, then thick, flannel lined jeans, topping this with a scratchy wool sweater. Pulling sturdy wool socks onto his feet he presses the adhesive backing of packaged foot warmers against the bottom of his feet then shoves them into thick soled, salt encrusted boots. By now the coffee will be ready, the timer set the night before. Kylo heads to the kitchen and, pulling the steaming pot from its cradle in the machine, pours the liquid energy into a steel thermos. Grabbing the large cooler full of sustenance for the day, Kylo leaves the apartment, heading down the sidewalk and down to the marina where his boat is docked.

Everyday he makes this walk, the salt wind hitting his face, blowing his hair beneath the wool beanie he wears, he thinks. Thinks about her face, the planes of her warm body pressed against his while they lay in bed together. The press of her lips, the smell of her hair. The pang in his chest reminds him that he is alive, regardless of what his mind would like to believe. That’s why he runs these memories over and over and over in his thoughts, so he can feel something, even if it hurts. It’s better than the numbing, biting cold that has filled his soul since the accident. Since coincidence and circumstance ripped her away from him forever. Sighing he hitches his pack higher up onto his shoulder and steps onto the rocking dock that runs alongside his boat. Stepping onto the deck he stares at the sky. The cloud cover is thick today, and deep deep grey, despite the rising of the sun. This, the wind and the sharp chop of the sea indicates a storm may be at hand. Better check the weather on the radio.

Sliding open the door of the Captain’s cabin with a rusty squeal, Kylo twists the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. Flipping and twisting switches and knobs, he gets the heat going and turns on the radio to listen to the weather report. It doesn’t bode well for an entire day of fishing, but maybe if he gets in a few hours he can make up the portion of his rent he’s missing. Once everything is relatively warm he steps out and unties the rope that hitches the boat to the dock. A gentle push on the throttle and the boat pulls away, heading out to sea.

Chugging along, Kylo sips on black coffee from his thermos, mindlessly chewing an egg sandwich from his cooler. His thoughts turn to the dream again, that haunting, lilting voice. He wonders if it’s her, calling to him from wherever she is now. It wouldn’t be the first time that joining her crossed his mind. All he’d need to do is jump off the side of the boat, close his eyes, let his heavy boots carry him into the darkness. But somehow he keeps going. She wouldn’t want him to come to her that way. Inhaling sharply, willing the tears that prick his eyes back, he scans the horizon for where he’ll drop anchor for a while, casting his net and hoping for something to come into it, something he can sell at market. His fish finder has broken and with the money gone he has been unable to fix it or get a new one. Relying on instinct isn’t getting him anywhere, but he has been able to somehow make ends meet. It’s just him anyway, one lone man. He doesn’t need much to keep him going.

Settling in a spot, Kylo pulls on gloves and a balaclava to protect his face from the sharp needle of the wind. He lowers the anchor down and steps out onto the deck, making sure to slide the cabin door closed to keep in the heat as he decides where to cast his nets. Along the port side today seems right. After the cast he circles the deck, checking knots, making sure pumps and pulleys are in good working order. On a warm day he’ll oil everything, retie knots, just general maintenance. Lately it’s been too cold to stay outside for too long to take care of these things. Making his way belowdecks he does what he can before heading back up to the Captain’s cabin to sit and wait, contemplating the horizon before it’s time to pull back the nets and head in. He’ll have to keep a close eye on the weather today to make sure he gets back to shore before the storm settles in.

Sitting on the chair in the warm cabin, Kylo, despite his better judgement, nods off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the boat. His hardened face softens in his sleep, full lips relaxed as his chin meets his chest. The hand wrapped around his coffee cup relaxes and lets go, spilling the brown fluid in a stream against the painted floor. His mind, relaxed finally, echoes with the song that has been haunting his dreams. Time passes until suddenly he is awakened with a jolt. The sea has gotten much more rough with the oncoming storm and Kylo’s small boat is tossed amongst the waves. He gets up, frantically yanking open the door and turning on the winch to reel in the nets. Stupid, he thinks, to have fallen asleep. How long was he out? His brain is fuzzy around the edges with sleep as he taps his foot, waiting for the nets to come back in. He’ll have to put the engine into overdrive to get back to shore now. He shakes his head, disappointed in himself.

The boat rocks and dips, causing Kylo’s stomach to lurch despite his long months spent at sea. Nearly losing his balance, he makes his way to the edge of the port side to see how much he’s got before the net is fully reeled in. It’s nearly there, he can almost make out the shape of it below the surface of the sea. Finally it surfaces, only a few fish jumping and starting within its grasp. He pulls it onto the deck, empties the fish into the well and raises the anchor, nearly running as he stumbles back to the cabin to turn tail and get home before the sea gets much worse.

The sky roils as the sea sways, tossing Kylo’s small boat side to side and up and down as he cranks the wheel, seeking to gain some sort of purchase in the churning sea. Waves crash against the sides as briny water washes over the sides of the deck, salty foam swirling over the wood boards. Kylo’s heart hammers in his chest as adrenaline burns its way through his veins, sharpening his vision and making his reflexes lighting fast. Despite his best efforts it seems as if at any moment the sea will overtake him. Fear rises up in his throat when he finally sights land along the horizon. Relief washes over him and he relaxes for a brief moment. It’s a moment too long as an enormous wave washes over the boat, knocking Kylo off balance. As he falls back, arms flailing as he tries to regain his balance his head strikes the thick plank of wood that the broken fish finder is bolted to. Everything goes black and he falls like a tree, hard and fast to the floor, legs splayed wide.

Soft swaying stalks within the green, the song…calling to him, ringing in his ears, bringing a smile to his long frowning mouth. Kylo moans in his unconscious daze, fingers feeling for warmth, something to hold onto. He’s been so lost…

The sun is shining through the grimed windows of the cabin as Kylo’s eyes flutter open. A cracking sensation fills his head as his hand goes to the back of his skull, rubbing the hard knot there, fingers feeling through his black hair, pressing the edges, checking for blood. His eyebrows come together in concern as he inspects his fingers, and, seeing no blood there, rises to his feet, holding his aching head in his hands. The boat is just about at the dock, rocking softly in the wake of the storm. Kylo scans the deck for damage and, surprisingly finds none. He guides it into the dock and jumps off, securing the knots that keep it in place. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a bare arm sticking out of the small stairway that leads below decks. Alarmed, he turns, rushing towards the outstretched arm that is attached to a naked female, unconscious and draped on the stairs. A very tall female, with thick blonde hair that falls in drying waves to her waist. Kylo places his hand on her shoulder gently and shakes, attempting to wake her.

“Hello, miss?” Kylo says, his voice shaking. The sun is piercing, hurting his aching head. He clears his throat and taps her again. With an unsteady hand his fingers move to her throat, inexpertly checking for a pulse. It’s there, strong, her life’s blood flowing beneath his fingers with every beat. Shrugging he pulls a wool blanket from the emergency pack and, wrapping it around her, hoists her long, chilled body over his shoulder. Darting his eyes from side to side, he makes his way back to his apartment, the dead weight of the blonde woman’s body making no difference to Kylo’s strong, sturdy frame.

He enters the apartment and flicks on the light, hastily making his way to the living room where he gently lowers the woman onto the couch. Lord, but she is tall, nearly as tall as Kylo himself, and his height, though not abnormal, is a rarity. Her pale skin is cold and he rushes into the bedroom, pulling out blanket after blanket to pile on top of her. Wrapping her snugly he heads to the kitchen and puts on the kettle, pulling a big mug down from the shelf and placing two tea bags within. Fumbling though his sparse cupboards he grabs soup cans, a variety, and places them on the counter. He’s not quite sure why he brought this woman home instead of calling an ambulance, but something told him not to, and Kylo was always one to follow his gut.

He goes back into the living room to check on her and, sliding his hand beneath the blanket feels her skin. It’s warming and her face is turning a healthier shade. The pink is coming back to her lips and as he watches her breathing, her eyes flutter, thick blonde lashes opening wide to reveal eyes the color of the sea during a calm summer day. A pink flush colors her cheeks and she blinks, her brow furrowing with confusion. “It’s you.” She says, her voice ringing like the soft tolling of a bell.

Kylo pulls back as if burned at her words. “What did you say?” he asks, the shock in his voice coming through, making it waiver with uncertainty. The blonde woman smiles and she stretches, languidly, as if he didn’t just pull her naked and near frozen from his boat.

“I said it’s you. I’m surprised to see you is all.” Her voice is clipped, almost British sounding, at least to his ear. Kylo steps back, almost frightened. “Let me get you some warm clothes,” he says nervously, dashing towards the bedrooms. Fumbling through the closet he finds some warm pajama pants and a sweatshirt that looks like it will fit her. Grabbing a ball of wool socks from a drawer he returns to the living room to find her standing, a blanket wrapped around her elegantly, like a ball gown. He coughs nervously, announcing his return and she turns, gracefully, long hair flowing behind her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the clothing from him. Her long arms sway like a ballerina’s as she points to the closed bathroom door. “Is that your…” she pauses, searching for the right term, “bathing room?” She tosses her head back towards him, waiting for his response. Kylo stumbles over his words, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” he chokes finally. “Would you like to take a shower? Warm up?” He rakes his hair back, knocking the beanie off of his head and it falls to the floor, forgotten as he stares agog at the tall beauty before him. She smiles and nods as he leads her to the room, opening the door for her as she floats past him, smiling that enigmatic smile and closing the door behind her. Kylo falls heavily onto the couch, his thoughts whirling as he tries to piece together what happened after he fell unconscious. Broken images and ghosts of memories circle though his mind. From the bathroom he can hear the tub filling, the water rushing into the cast iron. Fortunately this apartment is old and has a huge old tub, left from some time before when this was a grand old seaside home instead of sad, lonely apartments divided by paper thin walls.

Closing his eyes, his thick fingers rubbing his aching temples, Kylo inhales deeply, and exhales, stress leaving his body as a sound reaches his ears, making him stand at attention, rising to his full height. The singing…the haunting, lilting voice from his dreams is coming from his bathroom. Without a thought he closes the distance with three long strides and bursts through the door, finding the woman he’s brought here lounging in the tub, steam rising to the ceiling. She is washing her long hair and singing as she does so. His eyes open wide as his mouth drops open, taking in the sight of her smiling and singing in the tub. Clutching his broad chest in shock, he settles on the impossible, a long, shining silver tail reaching out of the water, broad fins flopping over the sides.

“You’re a…” he gasps, his mouth trying to form the word but it refuses to come out.

“A mermaid?” The woman says, finishing his sentence for him. “Yes, I guess that’s what you humans would call me,” She smiles enticingly. A long arm reaches out and she beckons Kylo towards her. As if moving in a dream he responds, his long legs moving towards the tub. Dunking her head under the water, tail coming further out of the tub, flashing in the light of the dirty bulb, she rinses her hair and rises up. “My name is Phasma, Kylo. And I’ve had my eye on you for a long time.”

Kylo falls to his knees, confused, frightened, but drawn to her side. “What do you mean?” he whispers, his shoulders slumping forward as he comes to rest by the edge of the tub. She brushes his hair from his eyes with long fingers, curling it back around his ear.

“Your sadness, Kylo. It calls to me. That lonely, empty keening of your heart. When you’re at sea…it beckons to me. I’ve been trying to respond, but you seem…unreachable. Until today, that is. Your life was in danger, so I saved you.” Phasma arches her long neck back and that voice comes peeling out of her throat again, making Kylo’s heart beat with a longing he didn’t know he could feel anymore.

“Is that you in my dreams?” He asks softly, cautiously. He almost doesn’t want it hear the response.

Phasma nods, her lips curling into a sweet and beautiful smile. “It is,” she answers. Sitting up, her full breasts rising from the steaming bath she reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his thick torso and pulling him in for a long, passionate kiss. Kylo gives in, though his head is swimming with confusion.

Hours later and they are laying in bed together. Phasma’s skin has dried and her scales and fins have receded, leaving behind long, human legs. At this time she has these legs wrapped around Kylo’s waist as he pumps into her, breathlessly hanging over her. All the while, that calm, beautiful smile dances upon her lips. Kylo’s black hair, damp with perspiration hangs over his forehead. He can’t even form thoughts at this point, his life has taken such a sudden and strange turn. This gorgeous woman in his bed who, only a little while ago was a gorgeous mermaid in his tub. The storm, the knock on his head…it’s all so odd and so strange. Her voice comes climbing out of her as her cunt clenches down on his cock, languidly, smoothly singing in her climax. A few more thrusts and Kylo groans, falling beside her, his strong arm wrapped around her flat stomach, pulling her close to him in his narrow, lonely bed. As if in a dream he nuzzles close, sleep already overcoming his exhausted body. “How long can you stay?” He murmurs into her bare shoulder. “Not much longer, my love. Soon it will be time for both of us to go.” She says in response, curling into him.

It is days later and the police pry the door open. No one has seen the fisherman in days, which is unusual, especially when his boat has been washed up on the shore since after the storm that blew through. He’s usually so fastidious, though quiet and keeps to himself. The first thing they notice is wet footprints leading from the bedroom to the door they’ve just entered into. Large, bare prints. They seem fresh, as if someone just walked across the floor after leaving the tub. The head officer puts up one finger, warning his team to be quiet, be wary and to follow his lead. They nod in response and tip toe behind him, careful not to trudge through the footprints, lest they damage evidence. Creeping along, they examine the bathroom. It is full of steam and the large, claw foot tub is wet as if it has just been drained. Taking great care they tip toe down the hall to the single bedroom. The door stands ajar and they call out, “Kylo Ren? Are you in there? This is the police. There has been some concern for you, sir.” No response. Pushing the door open slowly, the lead officer enters the bedroom and, finding what they are looking for, orders his men to stand down.

There, in the bed, is the fisherman. By the looks of it, he’s been dead for a few days, his pale skin turning blue with the chill in the room. Those wet footprints are here as well, although when the medical examiner finally comes and examines the dead man, he’ll find a large knot at the back of his head and signs of a severe concussion. The death will be ruled accidental, and they’ll shake their heads. Should have gone to the hospital, they’ll say. That was quite a knock to the head. But no one will be able to explain the steamy bathroom, the footprints that, when examined by the forensics team will be determined to have belonged to a woman, a very tall woman. Even though the whole town knew that the fisherman’s wife died long ago, and that’s why he moved here, to escape his past.

And the smile on the fisherman’s lips…the sense of peace and calm about the body. They’ll haunt the medical examiner until his last days, the lonely smiling fisherman. Did he see his wife finally, at the end? Or was it something else? Something as unexplainable as those wet footprints leading out of the house.

[hoodiesblog-blog]

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[arataandthegarden]

Feathers and Blood- an OC Hunger Games AU

Oh boy here we go. Just an AU we wrote with our characters. NOT CANON!!!

Trigger warnings: violence, gore, swearing, death, torture, slight rape mentions, suicide, my horrific writing skills, etc.

This story can also be read on Dragon’s Wattpad: ILackAesthetic

Yeah whatever it sucks but here it is. Also, the middle of the story is missing because I’m too lazy to actually finish that part. I’ll explain stuff when I get there and feel free to ask questions:

Dragon looked at the young pup with her fearful amber eyes. He seemed like he was only… twelve years old? She didn’t want to kill him, but she had to. Every wolf for himself.

After all, this was the Hunger Games.

Screaming “I’m sorry!” while running at the pup and ramming into him, she pinned him down. With chaos turning all around as other tributes fought for their lives, she bit down hard on his throat and jerked her head to the side. Sickening, hot blood sprayed her face and seeped into the dirt. One small and dying paw attempted to slash at her with a knife. It failed miserably.  She spat out the furry lump of flesh in her mouth and pried the blade from the fellow canines paws. She held the knife in her mouth and sprinted for the treeline, snatching up a black backpack as she went. She put it on with shaking paws..

As she ran she glanced back to see the avian wolf from District 1 fly the other direction with humongous purple wings. Dragon squinted and watched her soar away. The avian held no weapon. That made every inch of her pale blue fur stand on end. That wolf must’ve been skillful to go unarmed.

Wait wasn’t the avian a career?

Was she abandoning her pack?

Dragon nearly ran face first into a tree, snapping her back into reality. She bolted around the tree and continued her journey into the forest. She had no time to observe her surroundings; she had to get as far away from the Cornucopia as possible. Besides, she was fairly certain the entirety of the arena was woodland anyway. That was good, especially since she was a woodland wolf who came from District 7: the lumber district.

She was born around trees. She has lived around trees. Now she will die around trees.

Trees, trees, trees.

She missed her family and her few friends. It was unlikely that she would see them again, however. The odds weren’t exactly in her favor, and they never were. Back home she trained as a papermill worker, not as the typical District 7 lumberjack. She had never touched an axe in her life. All that she was talented in wielding were knives and swords. Already she was a disappointment to her district. She wondered what her family thought of her now

She slowed to a walk, feeling a little tired of running. Maybe the human boy who came with her was a little less of a mistake. His name was Johnny and sure, he wasn't much (he was a skinny fourteen year old) but at least he could use an axe and at least he wasn't “breaking tradition.”

A cannon blast made Dragon jump. She forced herself to calm down a little to count the shots. They were usually delayed after the bloodbath at the beginning of the Games. Two… three… four…

!!!

Only four?!

Thats gotta be a record for the least amount of tributes killed during the bloodbath. It worried Dragon further. There were still twenty other tributes alive, leaving plenty of competition for her to face. Dragon wondered how big the career pack must actually be as well. She irrationally imagined herself being hunted down by some super pack made up of everyone else left it the arena. She pushed that thought aside.

The red blood staining her muzzle, neck, and her paws began to get crusty as it dried into her fur. She could still taste its awful metallic flavor in her mouth. So naturally, she decided to take a break from walking to find a safe pace to wash it off. If there was no water in her backpack, she would have to make do just licking herself clean.

Dragon quickly found a giant cedar tree. She backed up several steps from it. Then with incredible speed, she ran straight up the trunk. Her heart skipped an entire beat when she nearly slipped (Her nails were trimmed before entering the arena. Apparently that made her more attractive, but how the fuck was she supposed to do anything with short nails?) but she was able to regain grip just enough to pull her body to a branch. She was thankful she could climb. It was one of the few skills she actually learned while living in District 7. She took a deep breath to force herself to relax and slid her backpack carefully off her back. She opened it as she plopped down on the tree limb.

Inside the bag was a roll of crackers (she wasn’t hungry yet), a bottle of water (half full), another knife, some rope, and a small black blanket. Such a lucky bag; all of the objects could be useful. She just hoped that it wouldn’t rain. There was no jacket in the pack. Wolves and canines never entered the arena with clothing since they survived well enough without it. However, humans who died easily of exposure required clothing.

She compared the knife to the one she took from the boy she murdered. The one she killed for was long and wicked sharp while the other was shorter, but seemed to have more utility purposes judging by the fact that it was serrated near the handle. She left the serrated one inside her bag and put the sharp one in the bag’s side pocket. If she needed it, she could grab it quickly.

As for the water, she didn’t want to waste it on cleaning herself. Water was precious in the arena and the bottle was only half full. So Dragon licked a paw and started to wipe at her face. She probably looked like a common housecat, grooming herself up in the trees. After hours of gently scratching and pawing at her face, she saw the blood coming out on her paw less and less. Eventually, she was satisfied enough to move on to her paws.

Just as she felt somewhat presentable, her ears pricked as she heard the Capitol anthem drifting over the treetops. She looked up to the sky, seeing the Capitol seal projected amongst the stars. It was already night time?! She had been so focused on cleaning herself that she had lost track of the time! She stood up to a sitting position and prepared to count the dead.

The first image in the sky was the pup Dragon killed. He was from District 6. She looked down at the ground, ashamed with herself. Back home, they would be replaying her kill in every bloody detail for all to see. Probably from multiple camera angles as well. And maybe in slow motion. She looked back to the air to see that a human from District 11 was dead and both of District 12 tributes were gone. Yep. Only four dead.

Dragon plopped back down on the branch, suddenly feeling exhausted and fatigued. Her stomach was turning anxiously. She needed to sleep, so she closed her eyes. However, a particularly frightening thought popped into her head: What about that winged wolf? Whoever she was, she could obviously fly. If the avian encountered her in the trees while she was sleeping, Dragon would be dead for sure. Of course, any flying creature in the games couldn’t fly very high. An invisible “net’ most likely covered the arena just over the tops of the trees. In previous games they existed for the sole purpose of keeping flying tributes from flying too high. When a tribute passes the limit, a nasty electric shock is administered through the tracking devices implanted in all of the tributes’ arms or forelegs. It wasn’t enough to kill the tribute, but it certainly was enough to deter anyone. Even a creature as mighty as a dragon.

Of course, dragons and other magical creatures were never put into the Hunger Games. Magical species lived in the Capitol and forced the non-magical to work for them in districts. That's how it’s always been and that’s how it’ll always be.

The woodland wolf put on her backpack and clambered back down to the ground. Hopefully, the avian will be more unlikely to find her on the forest floor. She found a fragrant flower bush (it was easy to find in the dark) and squeezed under its branches. In its leafy shelter, she drifted into a fitful and nightmare-filled sleep.

---

Dragon awoke to the sounds of rustling dangerously close. She lifted herself to a crouch as slowly and as quietly as possible, shaming herself silently when bright sunlight burned her eyes. It was nearly midday! How dare she oversleep! If whatever out there caught her, she easily would have been killed. Trapped beneath the thorns of the flower bush, escape would be impossible for the canine. She carefully scanned her surroundings through the bush’s entrance and nearly yelped at what she saw.

An arctic fox with silver blue fur stood on his hind legs, an oversized rain jacket clearly made for a wolf tied around his neck like a cape. He seemed to be dinning upon the raspberries of a nearby bush, glancing behind himself periodically. Dragon glared and sunk down a little further. She had completely missed the berries! First oversleeping, and now this! Hell, she was about as dead as a pork chop on a platter.

Mmm… Pork chops...

Holy shit she was hungry.

Berries aren’t all that different from pork chops, right?

No. Dragon froze. That fox she had seen during training. Wasn’t his name Lynx, from District 5? He was insanely quick on his feet and could very easily latch his tiny teeth around her throat, doing her in just fine. Armed, he might as well have been a miniscule juggernaut. She shouldn’t attack, but the idea of fresh berries sounded far better than those stale crackers in her pack.

How ‘bout raspberries on crackers? Fuck yeah.

Dragon prepared to pounce. If she surprised him, she would surely win. Picking up her knife, she inched forward on her belly towards Lynx. All she had to do was reach her paw around quickly and slit his throat, no problem. He just had to eat those berries for a little longer…

Leaves fluttered slightly overhead and Dragon ducked quickly back into her hiding place. Lynx turned his narrow face upward, ears swiveling wildly. Suddenly, he seemed terrified. In fact, he was scared stiff.

A blur of fur and feathers crashed in from the treetops like a great purple whirlwind. The avian! The winged wolf had the fox down in seconds with one silver paw obviously crushed between great blue jaws. She shook her head back and forth, shredding Lynx’s leg. The fox, screaming, was then thrown into the side of a tree. Dragon winced, hearing bones within Lynx’s ribcage snap (She also swore she heard the avian giggle quietly).

“No!” Lynx hopelessly pleaded with the avian and made an awful attempt to crawl away. “Let’s team up, Paint! No! STO-!!!” He cut himself off. To Dragon’s horror, he made eye contact with her through the bush. She shrank back further as he cried, “HELP ME PLEASE!!!”

But Paint (That seemed to be her name.) was upon him once again with powerful wings unfurling and this time she had his neck in her mouth. When Dragon saw her let go at last, terrible gurgling sounds escaped the fox’s torn windpipe, blood splattered into a slowing growing pool. A cannon finally fired and the avian seemed to relax. With wings closed neatly, Paint untied Lynx’s rain jacket and felt every pocket. Paint huffed loudly and tossed the jacket away, obviously finding nothing worth taking. Next, the avian regarded the fox’s body with clearly conflicted emotion until, to Dragon’s surprise, she picked up the body in her forearms and flew up and out of sight.

Dragon nearly left her hiding spot after waiting a few more moments just in case, but felt a warm and sticky liquid drizzle down her back. Blood was dripping from the treetops. She turned her head upwards hesitantly and nearly vomited at what she saw.

Paint, perched in the limbs of a towering cedar tree, had nearly her entire head buried within Lynx’s chest cavity, eating out the heart or lungs of the tiny canine. The dead fox was draped limply across a branch with still wide-open eyes staring blankly down at Dragon. As Dragon observed the avian, she began to shake in terror. Paint was insane!  There was no other explanation to the devouring of Lynx, but the explanation raised further questions. Why would the Gamemakers allow Paint to consume the dead body of a tribute? Usually, the Gamemakers killed those exhibiting those with cannibalistic qualities. Why hadn’t a hovercraft came to retrieve the body yet? That was a pretty standard procedure in the Hunger Games.

When Paint moved on to the stomach area of Lynx with a tremendous ripping of flesh (The poor fox was going to have to be cremated, if what was left of his body was to be retrieved!), a horrifying idea floated into Dragon’s head like a ghost. The Gamemakers clearly had something big planned.

And it had everything to do with the avian.

Suddenly, a cannon shot broke the air. Paint visibly jumped, as did Dragon. Another death! The avian stood up on the branch, balanced precariously for a moment, and spread her wings gracefully in preparation for flight. The winged wolf leapt from the limb and soared out of sight. This time, Dragon was certain Paint had left for good.

Dragon slunk out from under the bush and quickly made sure she had everything packed within her backpack. Then she put her knife in her mouth, brushed off her sapphire fur (It didn’t occur to her how unfortunately brightly colored her pelt was!), and proceeded towards the raspberry bush. A puddle of blood tainted the dirt nearby, making Dragon cringe a little. Lynx was terribly unlucky to die in that fashion.

“The odds weren’t in his favor, huh?” Dragon muttered with the knife still in her jaws, snorting once. Quickly, she covered her muzzle with her paws, dropping her blade. Guilt for laughing, even sarcastically, washed over her. The wolf turned up to Lynx’s hanging body. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to offend you. If I did, that is.” Blood merely dripped silently onto the leaves below.

She shrugged and returned to the raspberry bush. Bright red berries hung from bright green sprigs of leaves and prickly thorns. As fast as possible and while avoiding being pricked, Dragon ate quite a few straight off the bush. Their fresh, sweet flavor filled her mouth and satisfied her greatly.

When Dragon stepped back from the raspberry bush, she let out a terrified yelp when she trod upon something other than the forest floor. Her heart rate quickly returned to normal when she realized that what was under her paw was only the rain jacket. She picked it up and examined it. Blood stained the sleeves formerly tied around Lynx’s now gaping hole of a neck. Other than that, it appeared to be wearable. Dragon put on the jacket. It fit, but the sleeves were a tad bit too long; she rolled them to accommodate. The blue-gray material of the jacket hid her vibrant blue fur. She picked up her knife and trotted away, leaving the body of Lynx for a hovercraft to pick up.

As she was walking, she quickly realized how urgently she needed to find a source of water. There was nothing around the Cornucopia, but there had to be a creek or river somewhere. The Gamemakers wouldn’t let the tributes die off by something as tame as dehydration!

… Would they?

Dragon shook off the thought and continued through the flower forest. She finally could get a good look at it, now that she wasn’t running for her life. All around great blooms of mostly pastel colored blossoms sprung from grand bushes, vines winding up towering trees, and even from the trees themselves. Each released its own unique and extraordinarily fragrant perfume into the air. Some, as Dragon was beginning to grow wary of, shifted ever-so-slightly when she wasn’t looking. The tributes had to be especially careful of those, as well as any unidentifiable flower or fruit. Each could be poisoned or perhaps even bite.

Honestly, no one in their right mind was going to be tricked by a Gamemaker’s flower.

“In their right mind?” Dragon muttered. “If that's the case, Paint should probably drop dead from sniffing a flower. Any day now…” But she knew better than that. The avian may be insane, but she certainly wasn’t just a stupid brute from District 1. The way she had targeted his throat and ambushed him… and without a weapon too! Hell, she had a training score of eleven! Paint was clearly skilled and therefore couldn’t be much of an idiot.

Dragon wandered for about another few hours, pausing only to eat some more raspberries of another bush and to take a couple cautious sips from her water bottle. Since she couldn’t find any water, all that she allowed herself to drink was a drop at a time. As for the berries, they looked to be plentiful in this part of the forest, so why not indulge herself? She decided to save her crackers for another day.

Why haven’t the Gamemakers driven her to some more action, that was something Dragon didn’t know. Apparently, there was an event far more interesting happening elsewhere in the arena. A cannon fired, making Dragon smile. Such as a death, perchance? What did that leave… Seventeen? Quite a few, really. The Gamemakers better speed things up a little, or else the Capitol and maybe even King Scalro will lose interest. She shuddered, hoping that they won’t.

[Note (PLEASE READ): HEY HEY HEY IT’S ME THE WRITER BRINGING YOU A NOTE!!! The middle portion of this story is missing!!!! Wow!!!! So here is what happens between where we left off and the next part: Another tribute dies (his name was Mech). Dragon watches as careers (Bastion, Margret Marble, Kai, and Skylie) kill Johnny (also from District 7). Dragon runs and teams up with a wolf named Prism and a wolf named Capala. Prism dies and Capala is stabbed with a spear by careers. Dragon is still alive yay.

Next portion of the story is probably very triggering to people since it ramps up in intensity a lot. The story is kinda cringy, too. You have been warned.]

A loud, slowly approaching rumble awoke Dragon. The tree she had been sleeping in shuddered slightly, and she knew exactly what was happening. An earthquake obviously manufactured by the Gamemakers was literally going to “shake things up a bit.” Half falling, half climbing, she clambered down from the branches and onto the forest floor. Immediately, the quake was upon her.

The ground beneath her paws gave a massive roar as the earth rolled. Dragon fell on her face after briefly being thrown into the air. Her teeth clacked together, making her skull flood with a sudden pain and causing her eyes to tear up and see black dots swim through her vision. She yelped, and scrambled to regain her balance on the shaking arena. The world was a cacophony of cracking trees with roots abruptly clawing at the blue sky and wide, opening crevices speedily snaking their way towards her. The cries of animals, such as the deer now fleeing past the wolf, also filled the air. A cannon fired.

Dragon jumped up and bolted away from fissures, screaming. A cedar collapsed in her path. She was forced to backpedal and sprint in the other direction. Behind the wolf, entire trees and flower bushes were being swallowed up by the earth. Another cannon went off.

She soared over a gaping rupture, nearly falling to her death down below. Her pounding heart skipped a beat as she was caught hanging above the quivering chasm and had to claw herself up to “solid” ground. On the other side, huge spikes of rock shot through the dirt, a few impaling a couple of very unfortunate animals like giant bloody spears. Dragon prepared to leap into this minefield, but the arena suddenly silenced, the last booming sound being that of a cannon. Three. Three dead. She vividly imagined the last to die impaled upon the stone spears like some gory war trophy.

Just like Capala...

She crawled beneath the roots of a fallen oak to regroup. Her head and jaws throbbed from when she had fallen. She hoped that she didn’t have a concussion. Back in District 7, a kid couldn’t come to work for weeks due to a head injury. The doctor told him to rest, but if Dragon truly did have a concussion, there would be no resting in the arena. To add further insult to injury, several minor scrapes and bruises covered her body. The rain jacket was torn in several places. Apparently, she ran into quite a few brambles fleeing from the quake.

“Wh-where even am I?” Dragon questioned herself as she peered carefully around the roots of her hiding place. Her eyes widened. All around her, giant chasms yawned to the sky as plants and flowers lay entirely uprooted, rubble and dust coating everything. The beauty of the arena had transformed into ruins. The Cornucopia stood tall above the destruction, the one thing left completely untouched by the earthquake. Holy fuck it was so close. The Gamemakers had drawn her here, and perhaps many others, back to the starting point. Genius, really. She assumed that the resources still within the Cornucopia were safe. With the “natural” berries and fruits destroyed, it was the only source of food in the arena for tributes who couldn’t hunt.  

Dragon’s ears pricked, hearing voices from inside the Cornucopia. The career pack! Cowards! They probably ducked in there as soon as the quake began, as they never strayed far from easily obtainable sustenance. She shrank back when she saw Bastion emerge, his thick fur and build quickly recognizable. She watched as he sniffed the air and beckon for his companions, who all came out at once. Everyone seemed to be with him, but Dragon noticed that Marble was missing.

“Boy oh boy! That was one hell of a shaker, ay Sea Bass?” Syra said, giggling and nudging the wolf, who simply huffed. He obviously didn’t enjoy the nickname given to him by, presumably, the District 4 leviathan. A sea bass was a type of fish caught by the seafood district, right? Dragon didn’t remember.

“Well… We’ve lost Marble on the stone spikes, so our team has shrank,” said Marge, matter-of-factly. The pack must’ve been outside the Cornucopia when the earthquake happened. “That isn’t exactly something to celebrate. We’re weak now.” She had one hand on her sheathed sword. The human girl had something big planned, Dragon could tell.

Kai groaned. “Ugh, so what! That means we’ve knocked out another district! How many are out now…” He counted on his fingers. “Four? Marble being dead is a great thing! Far less to deal with!” Margret glared, but made no moves against him.

“SHUT UP!!!” Bastion yelled. The pack stared at him with wide eyes, Kai nearly dropping his trident. Dragon fought the urge to laugh out loud. The careers were genuinely terrified of him. “Who cares if Marble’s dead or not! Paint’s still out there, and we currently have no cover from avian attacks. Look around you! ALL THE TREES ARE GONE!!!” He took a deep breath and looked down at his paws. “So please just… chill, okay? Paint is our biggest concern.”

Kai and Syra mumbled in agreement but Margret continued to be unconvinced. “Really? REALLY?!” she shouted, hand now fully clasped around the hilt of her sword. Bastion flinched. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about! We haven’t even encountered Paint once! Fuck, I doubt she’s even as good as you say she is, Bastion. I think you’re LYING.” A slight squeak rose in Dragon’s throat when she saw Marge draw her weapon and jab it aggressively at Bastion, who jumped back to avoid it’s tip. The District 4 tributes simply watched.

“Wha-!” He shook his head, and picked up his spear. “I don’t understand!”

“YES, YOU DO UNDERSTAND!!! You’ve been using us since the start!” she wailed. “I think you’re trying to FUCKING PROTECT HER!!!” Margret swung her blade, but it was deflected by the raising of Bastion’s spear.

“STOP IT!!! I’M THE LEADER HERE, GODDAMMIT!!!” He rose onto his hind paws to jab the spear, but it was parried sideways by the girl. She lunged viciously, and the sword planted itself in Bastion’s ribcage. He slumped immediately, blade having pierced his heart and a cannon fired. Margret pulled out her sword and turned to the District 4 tributes, who both gawked at her. Dragon saw that her expression was one of sheer boredom, as if killing Bastion was just a waste of time and energy. It shocked the wolf to the core, far more than the murder itself. No, not murder. This was the Hunger Games.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The career pack, now only a trio packed up their things and ran off together. Dragon got up (with an aching complaint from her head), and slinked after them, ducking behind the trunks of trees to avoid being spotted. Maybe they knew of some type of shelter? Careers tended to travel with far more confidence, since they were deadly tributes to target with their large numbers and rarely rivaled skill in battle. Unfortunately, these careers obviously didn’t know where they were going. Arguing frequently, the journey to an unknown destination was slow and irritating. The District 4 tributes continuously glanced up at the sky. Apparently, Bastion’s words on Paint stuck with them. Thankfully, the avian was nowhere to be seen. She had probably taken to the skies when the earthquake occurred, flying off to a far side of the arena

At last, in the middle of the night and long after the fallen tributes were displayed in the night sky (Marble, a human girl from District 6, and a human boy from District 8 died.), the careers made a discovery. Dragon could tell simply by the loud and obnoxious whoops and shouts. She crept a little closer, careful to remain hidden behind a surprisingly undamaged raspberry bush. As she listened to the celebration of the careers, she popped quite a few berries into her mouth. Since she had been so invested in stalking, she completely forgot to eat! So damn forgetful…

The careers were standing at the edge of an enormous, twenty meters wide chasm, peering down into the depths. On the walls of the chasm were giant cracks and fissures, seeming to run farther underground and beneath their feet. They were tunnels, built by the Gamemakers to add an entirely new layer to the Hunger Games. Literally.

Margret soon found the entrance to a particularly large wall opening. A huge cedar lay diagonal, spanning the chasm in a natural bridge. Well, probably not too natural. The Gamemakers most likely added it for the specific purpose of being a path to the possible tunnels further beneath the earth.

“Come on,” Margret said. She shoved Kai towards the bridge with both hands. The boy stumbled forward and onto the log, wobbling precariously over the edge. Dragon held her breath and hoped that he would fall, but Kai quickly regained his balance.

He took two careful steps forward before glaring at the other two tributes. “What are you waiting for? Let's get going.” He continued slowly down the log and out of Dragon’s view. The sapphire wolf watched as the career girls looked at each other for a moment then followed Kai, Syra walking in front of Margret.

Dragon waited precisely thirty seconds (she counted in her head) before sauntering over to the ravine and peering over the edge. The crevasse was so deep, it made her injured head spin and her stomach turn; she wasn’t even afraid of heights! The careers were nowhere to be seen. They were probably in the tunnels.

She steeled herself with a slow, deep breath and placed one paw after the other onto the log. It wasn’t too hard to balance, but the thought of falling to her death made her legs shake a little. A gust of wind pushed her and threatened to throw her over the edge. However, she clung on well enough and managed to make it all the way to the entrance of the tunnels. She turned around to look at the bridge she had crossed. It would be hard for her to go back, especially because she was so afraid of falling!

Dragon sniffed the air of the dark tunnels and swiveled her ears, trying to figure out the location of the careers. They seemed to have retreated far into the caves. It was safe for her to continue.

She entered the tunnels. The air around her was cold and dry, but strangely pleasant on her fur. There was no light in the caverns, but her eyes adjusted well enough. Wolves could see pretty well in darkness.

There were separate caves everywhere! They branched off of the main tunnels and formed their own small rooms. Dragon quickly found a nice one and decided to enter. She could rest here.

Dragon sighed, taking off her rain jacket and spreading it carefully on the cold stone floor. She promptly lied down upon it, unzipping her backpack. She grabbed out the roll of crackers. She peeled back the plastic wrapping a bit and stuffed one into her mouth, chewing slowly. She was exhausted by hours of endless walking, but she must eat. She swallowed and gave an upset glance at the cracker package. She was going to run out of food if she didn’t forage or hunt soon, but if she ate only one cracker a day… No, that would be unwise and only leave her weak when she is attacked by a fellow tribute. She unwrapped the package further and was about to eat one more cracker, but froze when she heard pawsteps thunder down the tunnel.

A tribute was approaching fast!

Dragon felt panic rise in her chest. Maybe they would just pass by if she’s quiet enough… She fell silent… The pawsteps drew closer and were accompanied by the runner’s gasping breaths… Any moment now and they would pass…

A huge ultramarine canine crashed into her cave! They threw a small, brown, and furry lump into a corner. Then their purple gaze caught Dragon’s from behind a pair of brown goggles, and the woodland wolf gave a small yelp of terror. It was the avian, Paint! She unfurled her wings and pounced upon Dragon, pinning her to the floor. Dragon only then realized that her knife was lying on the ground three yards away.

Holy fuck I’m going to die, Mom and Dad please turn away, don’t watch, SHIT she’s gonna tear open my throat, then my stomach when I’m dead as fuck and chew on my intestines and liver and heart and lungs, then she’ll pluck out my eyes to make a motherfucking necklace, then wear my fur like a goddamn cape I’m dead I’m so fuckin-

She opened her mouth to scream for no other reason than to scream (Who was gonna help her, anyway?), but Paint’s paw hit her hard across the face. Dragon’s voice came as a weak little whimper instead. Her nose started bleeding and her injured head filled with an aching  discomfort, but that was nothing compared to the darkness sure to follow. Her eyes stung. The avian drew her face in closer. Dragon squeezed her amber eyes shut and braced for her death.

I’m dead!

“Don’t scream,” Paint whispered, glancing once over her shoulder. Dragon had never heard her voice before and it sounded far different from what she expected. She didn’t know what she was expecting. “Don’t scream or you’ll get us both killed.” She sounded fearful. Dragon opened her eyes and hesitantly looked up at her attacker, noticing at once that the avian was covered in deep scratches and ragged bite wounds presumably from a pack of tiny carnivorous animals. One of her ears were torn. She must’ve been fleeing something before encountering Dragon. Whatever it was, it had hurt her badly.

“Wha-”

Paint hit her again, this time a lot lighter than before. Maybe she had noticed Dragon’s pain? “Shut the fuck up! They can’t see!” Dragon was extremely confused but nodded vigorously anyway, simply thankful that she hadn’t been slaughtered ruthlessly. The avian glared at her before turning her entire face towards the room’s opening, Dragon doing the same. Both canines held their breath and the cave became as noiseless as a dark and starless night. A weasel-like critter of a decent size, slunk into the entryway. The creature had an unusual pattern of yellow fur on dark brown. Accompanied by three others just like itself, it sniffed the air with tiny twitches of its little nose. Dragon nearly cried out when she noticed its face. It lacked eyes, and its mouth was stained scarlet. Her heart pounded.

Gamemaker mutts.

The canines and the weasels were at a standstill for only minutes, but the minutes felt like hours. At last, the beasts disappeared, itsy-bitsy paws padding down the tunnel. When the pair could no longer hear the weasels, Paint stepped back and allowed Dragon to stand. The woodland wolf did just that and looked briefly at her knife, which was unfortunately behind the avian. She stared back at Paint, who gazed back with a stern expression, purple eyes never faltering. Dragon sighed and looked away at a wall. Awkward. “Are… Are you going to… To kill me?” she uttered weakly. Paint continued to stare, waiting. Dragon cleared her throat and wiped her bleeding nose with a back of her paw. A little red smudge stained her fur. “Uh, I mean, I’d rather that you… didn’t kill me, you know?” Paint tilted her head, making Dragon realize that the avian was thinking deeply. “But! But if you are, please make it quick. Just cut my neck, okay? Is that good?”

Paint turned to the side and picked up Dragon’s blade. The woodland wolf flinched. “I’m not gonna kill you,” the avian said, expression remaining the same. “But I want this knife in return.”

“Y-yeah, okay you keep it.” She decided not to mention that there was a second knife in her backpack, just in case. Dragon frowned, abruptly remembering the death of Lynx. Paint hadn’t even needed weapon to completely annihilate the fox early on in the Games. Why did she want a weapon if she was powerful without one? She narrowed her eyes. “Wait… Why do you need my knife if you easily slaughtered the shit out of the fox from District 5?”

Paint’s face shifted into a genuinely confused expression. “What? I don’t remember killing anyone? Did I?” The avian plopped down to the floor. The canine looked unaware of the coolness of the stone surface.

“Um… Yes?” Dragon was equally bewildered. She settled down as well, she herself shivering slightly at the icy surface chilling her stomach.  Did the avian really not remember? It seemed to be so. Paint really did have some sort of mental issue, most likely an amnesia problem by the looks of it. It sorta saddened her. To forget you’ve even killed anyone… She decided to not mention the cannibalism. “Yeah, you did. I sa-saw you kill him. I was hiding in a bush.”

“Oh,” Paint muttered. Then, she frowned at Dragon. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.” She wiped her eyes, suddenly realizing that she was. “Yikes…”

“Look, Dragon? That’s your name right?” The sapphire wolf nodded and cleaned her nose again. Paint sighed. “I’m not killing you yet, okay? Fucking hell, just stop it. Trust me, alright? Not yet.” Yet. The word bounced in Dragon’s brain until Paint continued with, “I think you’re kinda nice. That’s a good trait to have in the Hunger Games, in my opinion. You probably get all sorts of sponsors… Wanna team up? For tonight?” She stood up and stuck out a dark blue paw, making solid eye contact. Dragon hesitated, but took it. If it was sponsors the avian wanted, she would be awfully disappointed by how Dragon had failed to receive any gifts from outside the arena. They shook paws.

Paint smiled warmly at her before turning to a corner and picking up the furry mass she had thrown away when she barged in. She displayed it to Dragon proudly. A dead weasel mutt! She held it by it’s tail so it dangled limply in the air with its gaping mouth revealing sharp and bloodstained teeth. It’s spine, crushed and broken, looked to be the cause of its passing.

“Whoa! Did you kill that?”

“‘Whole group of these fuckers attacked me when I was entering the tunnels,” Paint explained. She sat down across from Dragon, putting the creature between them “That’s why I was running and that’s why I’m hurt.” She stared at the animal and shook her head, solemnly picking up her knife. “I guess the Gamemakers want me dead. That’s alright.” She gutted the weasel, pulling out sticky entrails and setting them aside. Strange, considering that Paint had no problem devouring Lynx’s innards. “I wonder if it’s edible.”

“Eh… I wouldn’t eat it… It could be poisoned or whatever.”

“I doubt the dumbasses down in the Capitol expected us to eat their mutts, so why the hell would it be poisoned?” The avian did her best to separate the carcase in half and gave one side to Dragon, who took it cautiously, casting a mildly suspicious look at Paint. The winged wolf scoffed. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I didn’t poison it either! Look,” she said, taking a bite out of her piece. No blood remained inside the flesh, since it had bled out completely quite a while ago. As she chewed, she cringed quite a bit. “See? It’s fine. The meat tastes gross, but it's fine.”

Dragon unenthusiastically ate a bit of weasel. Paint was right about the meat tasting weird. It was tough and chewy despite being raw. The flavor had a musty, festering aftertaste that made Dragon want to vomit it back up right away. She stomached it, thankfully, but wasn’t quite sure if she desired any more. “This is absolutely disgusting,” she grumbled, pushing the carcass away. Paint watched her stand up, then curl up on top of her still spread rain jacket with her back facing the avian. “I’m done. Uh... goodnight then.” She shut her eyes.

“Wait! Don’t sleep yet!” Paint exclaimed, completely forgetting her piece of weasel. “We should talk more! I haven’t talked to anybody since entering this damn arena.” She picked up her knife and settled down on her side with her back to Dragon, letting her big feathery wings brush her fur slightly. Dragon shuddered at their touch and imagined Paint clutching the blade’s handle like a teddy bear. It both amused and frightened her slightly. There was a tense, suspenseful silence for several moments before Paint at last continued with the question, “Have you killed anyone yet?”

Dragon hesitated before saying no. She then scooted closer to the avian, pausing to see if Paint would do anything. She didn’t. “Uhm… Paint... Do you like… Flying?” Paint snorted.

“Yeah dude! Who wouldn’t? Also, are you stupid? I’m an avian!”

The pair talked like this for hours until they drifted off to sleep.

---

Dragon’s back suddenly felt cold so she awoke, realizing at once that Paint had gotten up. Despite feeling lethargic, Dragon’s mind immediately jumped to conclusions and slipped quickly into a whirling panic when she realized how little they had actually slept. Why would the avian get up so soon?

Shit she was planning to let me fall asleep then slit my throat when I was out, how could I be so stupid as to trust her? what if she sees that I’m awake? hell, she could fucking rape me no problem since I’m still so tired and I probably have a mother fucking concussion, then kill me, what is she doing? what’s taking her so long, anyway? KILL ME ALREADY.

Dragon flinched when a paw, thankfully not a knife, tapped at her back twice. She looked up and saw the avian staring down on her, her odd purple eyes locking with her’s. “Oh!” Paint chirped. “You’re awake!”

She yawned. “Yep.”

Paint helped her up. “I think teaming up with you was a good thing. I got a sponsor!” The avian held a small black metal canister. On one end, the number one painted in dark blue signified who the gift was for. A small red light flashed slowly, accompanied by a slight beeping sound. “Should I open it?” Dragon nodded then eagerly watched her unscrew the container and take out a small jar and a slip of grey paper. Paint read the paper, but quickly stuffed it back into the larger canister. The avian opened the smaller container and on the inside was a semiclear, thick substance. “Oh cool. Some kind of ointment.”

Dragon frowned, suspicious. “What was on that note?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me what the paper said.”

“No.”

“Tell me!”

“No.”

“TELL ME!!!”

Paint, who seemed a little startled by Dragon’s yelling, finally gave in by saying, “Alright, but you’re not gonna like it.” She took out the slip and handed it to Dragon. Words were on it, typed in a neat, bold font. She read it quickly.

       This is for bite wounds. After applying to your injuries, kill her. -K

The woodland wolf glared at Paint. “I thought we were allies.”

“I told you. You weren’t gonna like it.”

Dragon sighed and let her scowl drift away. The avian was inevitably going to slaughter her anyway, and “ally” was a meaningless word in the Hunger Games. No use in getting upset. “Okay. You were right. I didn’t like it.” She decided to change the subject. “But hey! Looks like you got some medicine or whatever! That’s good!” Dragon yawned, feeling the combination of her injured head and exhaustion take her over again. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Goodnight.”

The woodland wolf plopped back down, and shut her eyes but still she kept her ears listening. She heard Paint unscrew the ointment, and made out an audible wince as the avian was applying it. Eventually, the pull of sleep caught Dragon.

---

Dragon awoke relieved to be alive but she was a little startled by the avian.

Paint had one of her magnificent wings covering the much smaller woodland wolf like a blanket. She also had one paw around Dragon. The avian’s brown goggles sat near the other paw. The heat between them was frankly quite sickening and that hot sensation was probably the reason for Dragon awakening so… early? Was it early? Time was hard to tell underground. Yet another challenge in this year’s Hunger Games.

She carefully removed Paint’s giant, heavy paw from her side with some difficulty before squirming her way out from beneath her even weightier wing. A few feathers fell off the wing as she stood. She picked one up and inspected it. It had a lovely dull purple color and was a little ragged at the edges. Was her ally molting? Did avians molt like regular birds? There weren’t any avians living in District 7, at least any that she knew of. Perhaps they did, but was it significant?

Not at all, idiot… She’ll still kill you if you stay with her, molting or not.

Holy shit.

I’ve got to get out of here.

Stepping lightly, Dragon made her way quickly to her backpack and peered inside. Everything remained. She glanced longingly at her rain jacket, which was unfortunately trapped beneath the still sleeping avian. She knew there was no point in trying to take the jacket with her (it shouldn’t rain underground), but it hurt her a little to leave it behind. She despised wasting anything, especially now. Paint still had her knife (it sat beside her sleeping head), but Dragon decided to let her keep it. The weapon was a symbol of their temporary truce, mildly ironic as that was. It just seemed wrong to take the blade.

She swung on her backpack and took a deep breath. Time to go. The safety of solitude lurked just outside this cavern and in the tunnels outside. She reached the exit, but looked back one last time.

Something silver caught her eye.

The ointment! It was next to Paint’s head.

Dragon turned around and padded carefully over. The ointment could be useful later on. It would be so easy to steal since the avian seemed to be sleeping, but could she do it? Her heart thudded. If she woke up, the woodland wolf would without a doubt be slaughtered mercilessly for attempted theft. Well, she was going to die anyway…

She stretched out a paw and grabbed the jar.

Paint’s eyes shot open and the winged wolf launched herself at Dragon. Dragon cried out when sharp teeth sank into her shoulder, tearing deep into her flesh. Her head hit the ground harshly. Spots danced in her vision. She blinked them away, momentarily stunned, then kicked, shouted, and flailed. The jaws only tightened their grip. Tears welled up in her amber eyes. “I’M SORRY!!!” she cried. “I’M SORRY!!! LET ME GO!!!”

Don’t watch!

Paint finally released but hit Dragon hard across the face with a paw. Dragon yelped and shrank down further. The avian’s fur bristled savagely. “BITCH SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” hissed Paint. She struck her again. “I was gonna let you go but noooo, you juST HAD TO FUCKIN STEAL SHIT, DIDN’T YOU!!!” Paint’s fur bristled and fluffed up, making her look even more menacing.

“YOU WERE AWAKE?!”

“YEAH!!! I WAS!!!” Paint’s eye twitched once and she took a deep breath. “You’re lucky I missed your neck.” She got off Dragon, who was shaking. Her heart rate continued to race as blood oozed from her bite wound. Paint rolled her eyes at her and put on her goggles (it took her some time to find them) and said, “You can stand up now.”

Dragon rubbed the bite. It hurt. Dull pain stung her head. “N-nope. I’m good here.”

“Pfft! Okay.” Paint paced around. She had obviously cooled down (despite the fact that her hackles were still raised), but Dragon felt uneasy. Paint’s entire personality had shifted once, then shifted back, so quickly! She shut her eyes, listening to the cadenced pacing and allowing herself to calm down only slightly. Her original hypothesis, Paint was insane, still remained plausible. If her ally were to snap again, she most definitely won’t “miss.” She had to escape her. Her life depended on it.

“Hey! I asked you something!” Paint said, pulling Dragon’s attention back. She stared at Dragon expectantly.

“Uh…”

“I asked what we should do today?”

“Preferably not me haha...”

Paint looked at her questioningly before she snorted and rolled her eyes. “God… Look, I only slept like that with you so I would know when you got up.” Quickly, she added, “I really don’t like you, or whatever. Seriously.”

“Good.” Dragon felt herself relax.

“But really, what should we do?” Paint continued pacing and this time Dragon was paying attention. “The careers are still out there.” Paint paused and looked to Dragon. “How many are left? Four?”

“No. Three. Margret from District 3 killed Bastion.”

“She did WHAT?!”

“Sorry! I saw it myself! She stabbed him with a sword. He died quickly.” Dragon paused, thinking. “That sword sure was nice.”

Paint was silent; her eyes hidden behind her emo hair. She plopped down in front of Dragon, the avian lowering her head down onto her paws. A solemn silence fell in the cave. Dragon didn’t know why but she suddenly felt awful for Paint.

“Hey… We got this! Now the careers have to die, either because of us or because of the-” Dragon gasped, startling Paint. The most brilliant idea popped into her head. It was so good, it could kill two birds with one stone! “THE MUTTS!!! I have a plan!”

---

The pair wasted no time in leaving their camp, packing up all their things into Dragon’s backpack, including the rain jacket. Paint claimed that she still didn't trust the woodland wolf, but she still allowed her to carry the ointment in the backpack. “What?” Paint had said just minutes before. “You are the only one with a bag!” However, Paint kept her knife and did force Dragon to walk in front of her just to make sure the woodland didn’t try “anything stupid”.

Their plan (formulated entirely by Dragon) had two phases. The first phase was to find the weasel mutts and attract them somehow, preferably with noise. Once the pair had the mutts after them, they would set in motion phase two, which meant that they would let loose the mutts onto the careers, which they would find before phase one. Hopefully, the mutts will kill off the remaining careers, therefore improving the odds of all remaining tributes greatly.

A third phase was known only Dragon. During the chaos that would undoubtedly ensue during the ambush, she planned on fleeing the scene without Paint. She had to escape the avian soon, since she didn’t want to stick around when Paint snapped. The avian was the second bird Dragon planned on killing with that one stone, figuratively speaking.

Walking silently through the tunnels, hardly any conversation sparked between them. That fact remained until Paint asked, “How are we even supposed to find the careers? I don’t know how to track!”

Dragon, continuing to limp (her shoulder still hurt) ahead of Paint, responded, “I know how to track, well enough at least. You see, I have a great sense of smell.” She stopped and turned to Paint. The avian carried her blade in her mouth. “Can we take a break we’ve been walking forever.”

Paint stopped and glared at her. “No.”

“Fine.” Dragon turned and continued walking. “Sure all dragonican wolves can smell pretty good, but for some reason I’m great at it. It’s pretty handy when it comes to hunting back in District 7. All I need is a spoor to start out with.” She sniffed the air. The careers were nearby.

“So… You’ve been tracking the careers the whole time? Neat.”

Dragon ignored her and turned another corner. A small cavern created a dead end at this tunnel. The opening to this cavern gave a great view of of its contents: the entire sleeping career pack.

“Wow,” Paint whispered from behind the woodland. “You really are good.” She stepped in front of Dragon and gestured for her to turn back. Dragon obeyed her and immediately began her search for the weasels. The mutts left musty-smelling trails everywhere and they all seemed to travel in groups.

After just minutes, Dragon spotted the first weasel. It slunk about in the tunnel, lifting its head occasionally as if to attempt to see with its lack of eyes. The woodland wolf lowered herself to a crouch before she gestured for Paint to get down as well. The pair waited anxiously as two other weasels appeared, then another two. The five creatures squeaked to each other as if talking, before continuing down the hall away from the wolves lurking nearby. Paint, who had switched her knife from her mouth to her paw, glanced over at Dragon, but Dragon mouthed “wait” to her silently. They were going to need more mutts for this plan to work.

The pair of wolves prowled after the blind weasels, which were soon joined by four more. It was as if the Gamemakers were providing the allies with mutts. Perhaps the Gamemakers wanted the careers dead as well.

Dragon pushed the thought aside. All the Gamemakers wanted was drama.

She crouched lower, preparing to run. “Go.”

“HEY HEY HEY HEY!!!!” Paint screamed at the mutts. The weasels whipped around, surprised. “REMEMBER ME?! COME AND GET US YOU LITTLE SHITS!!!”

“YEAH GET US!!!”

The pair turned back down the tunnel and sprinted. The mutts screeched and barreled after them in a pack of terror. The group that they had following them doubled as several more joined in from branching tunnels and holes in the ground. One leapt high into the air and onto Dragon’s back, sinking its tiny teeth into the injured part of her shoulder. She yelped, but was able to shake the mutt off. She ran a little faster.

Just as exhaustion was about to catch up to the wolves, they rounded the final corner and burst into the career pack’s cavern. They ran into the back of the cave.

All three of the remaining careers woke up sleepily, but were instantly up and panicking when they saw the wave of weasels streaming in. Kai had no time to raise his trident before the mutts were upon him. The weasels attacked savage and ruthless, devouring the flesh off of his body, ending his life. A cannon fired.

Paint leapt for Syra as the cannon went off, wings unfurled and teeth bared. But Syra was quick. She rolled away, however, she rolled straight into the mass of squirming mutts. Despite this, was able to successfully shoot an arrow deep into the base of the avian wing before her cannon went off. Paint screamed and fell to the ground, clutching the shaft of the embedded arrow and dropping her knife. The weasels turned their bloody heads towards the winged wolf before leaping at her. Paint fought them off weakly and stumbled outside the cavern, the majority of the mutts racing after.

The remaining weasels turned to the final two tributes in the room (Marge had been crouched in the corner) and attacked. Four ran around Dragon, biting wherever they could. Meanwhile, Marge struggled with five others. She cut through two with a sweep of her sword and impaled another before charging at Dragon, sword low and aimed at the wolf’s neck. Dragon dodged to the side and backed up. She spotted the blade Paint dropped just as Margret lunged again.

Dragon leapt away, smacked a weasel from the air as it flew a little too close, and snached the knife off the floor. She stood on her hind legs and chucked the blade as hard as she could at the human girl. It zipped through the air and hit with an audible thunk.

The knife was in her throat.

Blood spurted around the knife as Margret sank to the ground slowly. She fell forward and onto her face as the cannon boomed. The remaining weasels immediately rushed over and began consuming her flesh.

Dragon turned and lurched silently out of the cave and out into the tunnels. As she was fighting, she didn’t realize how many times she had actually been bitten. Smears of her own blood were all over her fur and a fairly large chunk was missing from her lower back. She was exhausted too.

She soon found a small empty cave and passed out inside.

---

Dragon woke up an hour or two later, perhaps even longer than that (Once again, time was difficult to tell in the darkness of the tunnels). She used whatever was left of Paint’s ointment since it was still in her backpack, and her bite wounds healed well enough (including the bite from Paint). Nothing much happened in the following two days (she knew it was two days because every night she heard the Capitol’s anthem echoing through the tunnels). Only three times during these two days did she hear the cannons fire. She didn’t know who died since she didn’t go outside when the anthem was playing, but she was just glad there were less tributes to deal with.

She finished off her roll of crackers. They were very dry.

---

Pawsteps echoing down the tunnel, Dragon continued her wandering through the caves. She realized that the majority of the games consisted of her simply walking. She wondered how the Capitol never got bored of the Hunger Games, but then she reasoned with herself that she wasn’t the only one in the games, so other things constantly had to be happening in the arena. Things such as violence and murder.

But nothing happened today. There were only four more tributes left, if her math was correct. She didn't know exactly who was left and it concerned her. She really hoped Paint was dead, but deep down she knew that was highly unlikely.

Dragon rounded another corner, slowing down her pace. She tilted her head. Something smelled… off about this passage. The had a heavy metallic odor with a slightly salty undertone. Like blood and sweat. Something about the sweat part seemed familiar. She quietly continued on, but froze when she spotted something that made her heart race.

A purple feather.

“Fu-”

The avian suddenly appeared out of the darkness, barrelling straight into Dragon. Dragon’s scream was cut off as her head was slammed back into a wall, body slumping on impact.

She immediately lost consciousness.

---

Icy water splashed Dragon’s face, waking her almost immediately. Instinct told her to stand and wipe the liquid from her eyes but as she was about to do just that, she felt something restraining her. Her forepaws were tied behind a pole with some sort of smooth nylon rope. This same binding was wrapped once across her neck and three times around her chest. Her head ached. She was sitting in an upright position with her hind legs free to kick, which was alright, but her lower back hurt like hell. On top of it all, the humid air smelled unbearably of blood, rotting corpses, and agony.

She blinked the water from her eyes with difficulty and yelped at who she finally saw.

Paint was standing directly in front of her with an almost predatory and excited grin on her face. Almost her entire torso was wrapped in bandages, probably because one wing was completely absent from the avian’s body. Dark, nearly-dried blood seeped through the gauze around where the wing was once attached. The wing must’ve been amputated by Paint herself.

“P-Pain’t wh…. What’s going on?” said Dragon, pulling again a little more desperately at the ropes. She could hear the fear in her own voice. “Why am I tied up?” The avian simply continued to stare at Dragon. Dragon cautiously craned her neck to glance around the room (which turned out to be a cave of some sort), feeling Paint’s eyes follow her every move. The cave was illuminated by a small electric lantern. Behind the winged wolf, a another wolf was bound and gagged to pole similar to Dragon’s. She was small, orange-furred, struggling, and… Steaming? Dragon’s thoughts didn’t linger there for long and as she returned her gaze back to Paint, she asked shakily, “What are you going to do to me?”

The avian broke her silence and laughed, making Dragon flinch. The laughter wasn’t a particularly happy sound. “I’m gonna have a little fun of course! But, there’s another guest I have to take care of first,” Paint said, stepping away from Dragon and giving her a full view of the other tribute. The avian approached the orange wolf and sat down beside her while still facing Dragon. “This is False, from District 8. She’s a hybrid with a little bit of volcanic wolf in there somewhere. Therefore she’s a firebender and could easily just make a little flame and burn her way out of the ropes.” Paint turned away from Dragon to stretch out a paw to touch False’s face, but False pulled away with an audible growl. The avian snorted and gave up her attempt. “I had to douse her in water because she can’t do shit if her fur is wet. So she just sits here steaming and steaming, still trying to warm up.” She paused before turning back towards Dragon. “Her fur’s fireproof you know?”

“So…”

“I’m gonna keep her fur after I kill her slowly.”

Dragon’s mind fell into a panic. She didn’t want to watch whatever torture going to occur. She tugged on her bonds and kicked with her hind legs. Paint only watched, amused. “Let me go! LET ME GO!!!” cried Dragon. “PLEASE I WAS YOUR ALLY!!!”

“What do you mean, ally?” said Paint, voice full of ridicule. Dragon stopped struggling, confused. “Why would I be allies with… AHAHAHAHA!!! You were allies with HER!!! OHHHHH… Okay I see!” Paint laughed some more. “Of course I wouldn’t remember!”

“Who are you?”

The cave seemed to freeze in time at Dragon’s question. Even False seemed to quit squirming. Breaking the silence, Paint chuckled and gestured to herself. “I’m Paint, of course. I think you were talking to the other Paint.” She paused and added, “I’m the better one.”

Dragon ignored the last comment and instead focused on the previous. Her heart rate picked up a little more. The avian was insane with some sort of split personality disorder. She had heard of one wolf who lived in District 7 who had something similar. Some days he was himself, some days he was an eight-year-old pup, other days he was a forty-five-year-old human woman. Apparently the disorder was common in intelligent canids, but they were rarely violent. However, Paint seemed to be an unfortunate exception.  “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I know that,” Paint responded. “Well, let's begin shall we?” The avian walked calmly to one of several knives lined up on the floor and picked one up. It was small, but looked crueler and sharper than the rest. The blade caught the light in a somewhat beautiful white flash as Paint returned to False. The smaller wolf flailed about, steam rising off her body at a much higher rate that before.

With the sudden speed of a striking snake, Paint plunged the knife deep into False’s stomach and in that same motion, she swept the blade up towards the bottom of False’s ribcage. Greyish red intestines and other internal organs immediately oozed out of the gash along with bright, fresh blood. False kicked viciously, horrible sounds similar to those made by a dying sheep rising from her throat.

Dragon screamed, witnessing it all very clearly. “STOP!!! STOP PLEASE!!!!

The avian ignored her and drove the paw not holding a knife into the cut. She seized up a tangle of guts and tugged, effectively pulling out most of False’s insides. Scarlet liquid splattered the ground. Paint growled, seeing that some of the intestines were still stuck inside, and promptly forced her head into the cavity. Dragon soon realized that the winged wolf was eating, no, devouring False’s organs from both the still living body and the floor.

The sapphire wolf felt herself urinate in fear. Every inch of sweaty fur on her body was bristling. “STOP IT, YOU BITCH!!! STOP IT!!! SHE DOESN’T DESERVE IT!!!” She continued to screech, tears streaming from her face, until Paint seemed to have had enough with her shouting.

The avian’s ears swiveled in her direction, huge head soon following. Paint’s teeth were stained red, blood dripping from her chin. She was still smiling, and the grin was gruesome. She approached Dragon with a bit of intestine in one paw. The other paw shot out, grabbed Dragon’s muzzle, and forced her jaws open.

Don’t watch!

Paint shoved the guts into Dragon’s mouth and then held her jaws closed with a firm grip. The taste of blood soaked her tongue, the liquid dripping down her throat. It was warm and sticky. As she tried to kick and pull away, the avian giggled before leaning in and snarling, “Shut the fuck up you little bitch.” Paint let go and returned back to her other victim, whose struggling was weakening. Dragon spat out the intestines, felt vomit rise in her throat, and threw up whatever was in her stomach (It wasn’t much). The vomit stuck to the fur on her chest and drizzled onto one of her hind legs. She moaned and vomited a little more before lifting her head.

The winged wolf had picked up a smaller knife, leaving the old one on the ground. This new blade was embedded in the edge of False’s left eye socket. Paint was moving the weapon slowly around the eyeball, causing blood to drip down that orange face like red tears. The smaller wolf was wriggling, steaming and kicking weakly, but Paint didn’t seem to feel the blows in her side. With a small flick of the knife, False’s green eye popped out of her skull and dangled limp on the few attached nerves. Dragon simply continued to weep.

Suddenly, False’s steam stopped and the fire started. Red flames rose up from her binding in a flash, incinerating the rope around the smaller wolf in an instant. Dragon gasped as False screamed with whatever remaining energy she had left and pounced upon the avian, wrapping her fiery paws around Paint’s throat. Paint yelped, feeling the paws scald her neck.

But just as Dragon thought they had won for sure, the ultramarine wolf threw False to the dirt with little effort. “I HAD TO WASTE WATER TO RESTRAIN YOU AND WHAT DO YOU DO?! YOU BURN IT ALLLLLL AWAY, GODDAMMIT!!!” Paint angled the blade and began cutting through False’s skin, peeling it back from the pinkish red muscle. False’s remaining eye, full of pain, stared deep into Dragon’s own. The little wolf’s breathing was shallow, and it was obvious she was going to die soon. But somehow, a single tear fell from her eye as her jaw moved, almost like she was trying to call for help.

However, a cannon fired at last and False’s gaze went blank.

Dragon slumped, tears continuing to run down her face. She sobbed weakly as Paint continued skinning False’s dead body. Her chest hurt about as much as her head seemed to. The woodland wolf closed her eyes, trying to calm herself (it was unsuccessful) before asking for the second time, “Wh-what are you going to do to me?”

Paint stopped working on obtaining the fur and turned towards her former ally. The avian’s entire front half was covered in blood. Even her wing had a few splatters. The monstrous grin was replaced with a sly smile. “Do you really wanna know?”

“... Y-yes.”

The avian approached her slowly, stopping and sitting down directly in front of her. The knife was still in her paw. “I’m gonna use you to hunt for the last tribute besides ourselves, who is Apple from District 11. I know who the other tribute is because I watch the death recaps every night. Well anyway, I saw you hesitate when you entered my territory. You’re a tracker of some sort.” She paused, thinking. “You’re like a… Like a hunting dog. I want to treat you like a hunting dog.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m first gonna do some small adjustments to you. I’m first chopping off most of your tail. Then I’m going to sew your ears down with a sewing kit I got from a tribute so they look floppy,” Paint said. Dragon noticed the avian was moving in even closer to her body. “Finally,” Paint muttered, now standing over Dragon. She traced her paw softly down the woodland wolf’s stomach. Dragon flinched and tried to pull away, extremely uncomfortable. Paint giggled a little. “... I’m gonna spay you like the bitch you are.”

“Uhhhmm… Y-yeah you can’t pull that off.” Dragon was shaking. She was still crying, but she tried her best to sound strong when she said, “Get off me, please. I am literally covered in vomit and pee.”

Paint stood her ground, paying no mind to that last comment. “I can totally spay you. It can’t be that hard. In fact, I’m doing it tomorrow.” The winged wolf drew her face in closer to Dragon’s. The pale blue wolf could smell and feel Paint’s warm breath in her fur when she whispered, “In the meantime…”

Their noses touched.

Dragon shouted, completely disgusted and violated. She opened her mouth and bit down hard on Paint’s muzzle. The avian yelped and slashed her knife across Dragon’s chest, leaving a long horizontal gash and splattering a bit of blood on the floor. Dragon let go immediately and watched as Paint stumbled backward, clutching her injured snout. It was bleeding a bit, but not by much. The winged wolf looked up at Dragon, grin back on her face.

“You know what, pal?” Paint growled, picking up machete off the ground and dropping the other knife. “I think we should start a little early on your hound dog transformation.”

“No. No please,” Dragon begged. She flailed in the ropes, feeling them cut into her forepaws. Paint walked towards her. “NO!!! NO!!! YOU ST-STAY AWAY!!! FUCK!!! NO, PLEASE!!!”

The avian snatched up Dragon’s tail, pulling it out to the side. She raised the weapon in the other paw.

“STOP!!!”

Paint swung the blade down and the sapphire tail was severed in a single chop. Agony erupted in Dragon’s behind and traveled up her spine. Lightheadedness overtook her brain.

Dragon quickly passed out.

---

When Dragon first heard the buzzing, she thought it was just her head.

She awoke immediately and scanned her surroundings. A shadowy lump Dragon assumed was Paint slept peacefully in a corner. The smell of Dragon’s own piss, blood, and vomit choked the air, instantly making her want to pass out again. She would’ve killed for some fresh air. She quickly located the true source of the buzzing: A small, black colored drone.

It seemed to notice Dragon was awake, so it lowered itself near to the ground about a yard out from where she was bound. It hesitated there, hovering, until it carefully and quietly dropped a black container onto the floor with robotic grace. It delivered a sponsor! So that’s how sponsors were delivered in the tunnels!  The drone made a single beep before zooming away with a tremendous buzz of propellers. Dragon cringed at this, as the noise both hurt her head and could’ve been loud enough to wake Paint. But the avian didn’t stir.

“Thank you!” Dragon whispered to the air. “Thank you for saving me.” For a brief moment she felt tears well in her eyes but she forced them back down. There was no time for crying.

Now how will she reach the sponsor? She took a deep breath and tested the ropes holding her paws. Nope. Still tight. The only way she could reach the container was by stretching out and pulling it towards her with her hind legs and paws.

She extended a leg and immediately felt a jolt of pain shoot through the bloody stump of her nonexistent tail to the top of her spine. She cried out and pulled back. She glanced back over to Paint. She was still sleeping. Dragon turned back to the container again. She didn’t even come close to reaching it. She tried again, experiencing that same stab of agony, but this time she brushed the container with one paw and managed to bring it closer. She rested for a moment before stretching out one last time. She grabbed the container between her paws and slid it towards herself, wincing when she sat up straight to analyze the container. At last, she flipped it up to her chest (It took her about two attempts). Dragon twisted the top off awkwardly with her mouth. She must’ve looked ridiculous (Go ahead, let the Capitol laugh) but she opened her sponsor successfully.

A small and shiny razor blade sat at the bottom of the container.

Dragon wasted no time and snatched it up, holding it carefully in her mouth and between her teeth. She then craned her neck out and began slicing through the rope. The sound of splitting fibers filled her with hope.

The rope fell with a thunk to the floor.

Dragon stood, shakily and in pain of course, but she still stood. Without a glance back she bolted…

… Straight into a wall.

Dragon yelped and fell backwards onto her injured behind, clattering several metal objects she couldn’t identify in the dark. She froze on the floor, staring fearfully at Paint. The avian stirred, lifted her head sleepily, then turned her face towards Dragon. The woodland wolf’s heart thudded. Paint’s eyes immediately narrowed behind her brown goggles (Did she wear them to sleep this time??) and a grin slowly widened on her face. “I give you three seconds to run. Go.”

Dragon took no chances and sprinted out the entryway. She had to escape the tunnels and get outside. Her stump of a tail caused her to stumble once, but she righted herself immediately. The world behind her blurred away as she rounded corner after corner. She desperately sniffed the air for any odors of the outside, but she found nothing. Just blindly fleeing a deadly force.

She descended into panic when she heard Paint pursuing her clumsily. The avian was closing in on her target, but her pawsteps sounded uneven and awkward. Running without one of two wings must really throw off your balance. Dragon flinched when she heard Paint crash into a wall as they rounded a corner.

Light suddenly grew brighter in the tunnels and!! There it was! The log bridge! Dragon had found the exit! She was fre-

Paint slammed into Dragon with the force of a freight train and the pair fell to the ground together. The avian rolled on top of her, hitting Dragon’s head on the ground. Pain filled her skull and a dazed sensation threatened to pull her into unconsciousness. Paint’s paws were immediately at Dragon’s throat, choking her. The woodland wolf clawed at the paws around her neck, struggling. A flurry of falling feathers surrounded the pair as Paint’s remaining wing flapped madly and with little purpose.

“Where were you going? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU GOING???” Paint screeched, continuing to suffocate the squirming Dragon. The avian’s maniac grin remained constant. “You have nowhere to go, no chance of survival. You and I both know that, now don’t we?”

Dragon felt all of her energy seep away and she dropped one of her paws from her attempt at clawing away Paint. But as she did, she touched something smooth and cool.

Her razor blade!

Dragon wasted no time grabbing the the blade. She quickly sliced wildly at Paint’s paws and when Paint let go with a yelp, Dragon swung the razor in a wide arc at the avian’s neck.

It struck.

The avian screamed and stumbled backwards Dragon saw immediately that the narrow scratch across Paint’s neck wasn’t at all life threatening. Paint was still alive. Damnit.

Dragon leapt for the log bridge but a paw struck her from the air and the woodland wolf fell down…

Down…

      Down…

             Down into the ravine.

She landed with a sickening crunch on the ground as her ribs and a leg snapped on impact. Agony ripped at her side and she screamed at the sky. Tears streamed down her face. Above her, Paint balanced precariously on the log, seeming ready to fall down herself, but the avian managed to back up into the tunnels. A few feathers drifted lazily down as she peered over the edge, eyes squinting behind her goggles.

Paint laughed and spat at Dragon, who did nothing to avoid the saliva. “BITCH!!! Look at what you’ve done!” A wave of giggling took over mid sentence as Paint rubbed at the cut on her throat. Her paws were bleeding quite a bit. “I’m hurt and now you’re gonna die down there you little shit!” Dragon felt lightheaded; the pain was too much and she was going to pass out soon. Paint flicked her own blood at the woodland wolf down below before muttering, “I hope you still have that razor. Or else it’ll be a slooowww death for you.”

Dragon drifted from consciousness as Paint turned and disappeared.

---

The sunlight barely breached the ravine but during midday, the sun scorched the broken land all the way to the floor of the crevasse. Dragon awoke around this time.

Flies buzzed about and landed upon her body, rubbing their greasy little insect legs together as if scheming her demise. She made no attempts to swat them away. Her body hurt too much and she was running out of hope. She was starving as well, but there was nothing to eat except a half dead berry bush that had obviously fallen in during the quake. However, the berries looked suspicious as well and Dragon had almost no strength left to drag herself to sustenance.

Numbing, horrible agony stabbed her swollen left foreleg and her crushed side. She knew that climbing out of the ravine was not an option, despite the fact that Dragon was actually on a ledge that hung over the actual bottom of the ravine. If she had fallen any farther, she would’ve been dead.

She wished she was dead.

Dragon’s razor sat passively in her right paw. It had cut her paw pads badly during her fall but in comparison to her other injuries, that meant nothing. She stared at it, remembering what Paint said before she left. Suicide did seem like the only option. Even if she did manage to claw her way out, Paint would most likely resume tearing her apart perhaps even slower than as she did with False. She was hopeless. She might as well just slit her own throat or bleed herself out somehow.

Suicide was the only option, but she wasn’t going to kill herself like that.

The berry bush caught her eye again. She lifted her injured head to look at it closer. The berries were reddish orange in color, with a blue seed visible through its transparent skin. It was obviously manufactured by the Capitol, so it was obviously poisonous. Dragon sniffed the air. The bush smelled… Spicy. Peppery, in a way.

Yep. Definitely deadly.

If she could just reach them… No she had to consider what was to happen after she died. If she ended her life, there would only be two tributes left in the games: Paint and Apple. Was her name Apple? Apple was another wolf, right? She couldn’t remember since that other tribute, clearly an unseen variable, had never been spotted by Dragon at all during the duration of the games. Whoever Apple was, she was an excellent hider. But would she have the strength to defeat Paint? She really hoped so. She definitely didn’t want the avian to win. The Capitol couldn’t let Paint win anyway; Paint was insane! Perhaps the Gamemakers saw all of this coming and planned for it all along. Maybe they had protected Apple for so long, just for Apple to be a “protagonist” versus Paint’s “antagonistic” ways. A story fit for the entertainment of the Capitol.

If she committed suicide, would her family be disappointed? Would her district be disappointed? Oh well, that wouldn’t be a problem if she was dead.

Who was she kidding. She didn’t have a choice.

She had to die.

She took a weak, shaky, and painful breath. First, she attempted standing on three limbs, holding her broken leg in the air. But this immediately proved to be unsuccessful. She cried out in agony as her entire ribcage seemed to fill with pain. Dragon quickly settled on simply dragging herself (Drag on, Dragon)  towards the berries, using her functioning legs to push herself forward. Every slight bump she hit made her wince, but at last she made it to the poisoned berry bush.

She forced herself to raise her head to the level of a small clump of of berries. Without another moment’s hesitation, she opened her mouth and ate them straight off the plant. They popped between her teeth, releasing bizarre, peppery juices onto her tongue. The flavor wasn’t too strong, therefore making the taste in no way unpleasant.

Just as she was about to eat a few more, a burning sensation struck her throat. It started out as pleasantly warm, but soon escalated into a painful scalding. She screamed clawed at the neck. It felt as if she was breathing fire.

Haha. Get it? Because she’s Dragon?

Hilarious.

Soon, her entire body burned, causing her to flail about in agony. She imagined the Gamemakers’ cameras aimed towards her, documenting her final struggle. But this brief imagining was cut off by a sudden, sharp pain in her chest. Her heart stopped.

The cannon fired.

Her still-twitching body was picked up by a hovercraft.

---

At about a few moments before Dragon died, Paint was relaxing peacefully in back her cave while bundled up in a fairly warm and fuzzy blanket. Killing took a lot of energy, so it was crucial for her to take a break in between slaughtering tributes.

She had a small notebook in front of her (She had brought it with her into the arena along with a few pencils), in which she drew a few sketches of Bastion under the light of an electric lantern with difficulty. Both of her paws were covered in what was left of the same roll of bandages used to wrap up her side after she amputated her wing. The avian was careful to wrap each finger (are they called fingers??) individually, so she could still have mobility in her paws when needed. However, that didn’t stop her paws from hurting. And fuck, they hurt pretty bad.

If only she had kept a hold of Dragon. Paint could’ve done so much to that bitch. She could’ve used that fancy box of matches one of her previous victims had (One benefit of murder was that one could get all sorts of free stuff after, and Paint loved free stuff.) and burned the woodland wolf to death in a bonfire. It probably would’ve smelled excellent, like cooking a pig. Or perhaps she could’ve done the burning bit a little slower, skinning Dragon alive at first (wouldn’t want to burn all of that beautiful fur) and then roasting some good wolf flesh.

A pleasant little shiver went down Paint’s spine, making her remaining wing ruffle a bit.

She would’ve loved killing Dragon.

She quickly forced those violent thoughts out of her head and continued drawing another Bastion. However, just as she was about to finish this one, a cannon fired and caused her to jump. When she flinched, her paw slipped and a long, dark pencil line was slashed across her paper. She grumbled to herself angrily and prepared to erase the mark, but then she stopped.

That cannon had to have meant Dragon was dead.

Paint closed the notebook and stood up, grinning. “It’s about time,” she muttered, raising one paw to rub the scratch in her neck. The injury wasn’t much in comparison to the cuts in her paws, but it stung every time she moved her head. Did the cannon mean Apple and Paint were the last ones in the arena? Who even was Apple? A wolf? Before the Hunger Games and during training, the avian had made an effort to memorize the names and districts of every tribute in both states of mind: Paint #1 and #2. However, since she had been so entirely focused on memorization, she couldn’t remember half of the faces that went with the names! Perhaps Paint #1 remembered, but Paint #2 didn’t exactly feel like leaving quite yet.

She turned off the lantern, leaving the room in darkness. She blinked her eyes behind her goggles to adjust her eyes to the light then left the cave with all of her stuff in it, ready to hunt for Apple. It was unlikely this late in the games for her stuff to be stolen. Besides, the stench of the cave caused by the four rotting bodies piled up in the corner (For some reason, body retrieval was nonexistent underground) alone was enough to keep anyone away.

Limping slowly through the tunnels, Paint thought about the other remaining tribute. Whoever Apple was, the avian had no worries about defeating her. Every tribute Paint had encountered she killed without too much trouble. Sure, occasionally they fought back and hurt her somewhat, but that was natural.

No one wanted to die in agony.

---

After hours of hunting for Apple with no success, Paint made her way towards the exit of the tunnels. She estimated that it was nearly night time, and the anthem would be playing soon. The avian wanted to watch the death recap and see proof of Dragon’s death. She wanted to see the district number of her deceased enemy. She wanted to see Dragon’s picture projected in the sky. Only then would Paint be satisfied.

The avian soon found the exit, illuminated by silvery moonlight. She stepped slowly towards the cliff and plopping down near the edge. Paint wouldn’t dare to attempt crossing the cedar log bridge. Without her other wing, she simply was too unbalanced and would likely fall down into the ravine. So instead, she settled on craning her head out over the ledge to stare at the stars.

The sky remained blank and starry until the anthem began to blare proudly in the arena. The Capitol’s seal appeared in all its projected blue glory, before fading into an image of Dragon, labeled boldly with “District 7.” This image stuck around for quite some time before the music gave one final flourish and faded out along with the image. The sounds of the night reentered the arena and Paint stood up, turned, and walked back into the darkness of the caverns with a grin.

That was that. Dragon was dead.

As she marched through the tunnels, Paint felt tempted to continue her search for Apple, but she knew that it was best to return to her cave. She was horribly exhausted and needed to sleep. Gotta rest up before she won the games. Tomorrow was going to be a great day for sure.

Turning one final corner, she finally reached the last tunnel that led right up to her cave. However, she froze. A massive reddish pink colored and female wolf (somewhat taller than Bastion was) stood several meters in front of Paint, effectively blocking her way back into her cave. Her giant head was lowered and her hackles were raised, making her body seem even larger. Her enormous paws held no weapon, but they seemed perfectly capable of crushing the avian without one.

The wolf was Apple and she looked pissed.

“You,” the District 11 tribute growled, taking an angry step towards Paint. The avian stood her ground, but she was shaking slightly. Apple barked and Paint flinched with a small yelp. “You’re crazy! I saw their bodies,YOU PSYCHO!!!” Apple took another step forward and this time Paint moved back a little. “You hurt them bad. Entire pieces of them were MISSING!!!”

The avian chuckled nervously and tried her best to put on a friendly grin. The end result wasn’t great; it was too awkward and desperate. “You don’t want to kill me r-right? C-Come on now? Who’s the real enemy here? You hate the Capitol, correct? I hate them too!” Paint nodded her head towards the end of the tunnel before saying, “Just let me walk pas-”

“NO!!!” interrupted Apple. The giant wolf advanced towards Paint at a brisk pace. “You deserve to DIE!!! I have killed NO ONE yet and you have SLAUGHTERED others like… like…”

Paint grinned genuinely this time. “Like pigs?”

Apple roared and launched herself at the avian. Paint lept to the side as the enemy wolf’s weight crashed down on the ground just next to her. When Apple rose back up, the avian bared her teeth and pounced at her throat. However, a red paw struck her in the side of her head, knocking her to the dirt like how a cat would strike a toy. Paint went flat on the ground, found herself at a perfect height to tear into Apple’s soft belly, and attacked with her jaws wide open.

Her teeth sank into warm flesh but that flesh belonged to her enemy’s foreleg, not her stomach. Hot blood seeped into her mouth, tongue tasting its metallic flavor. Apple screamed and used her free paw to smack Paint’s head and muzzle. The winged wolf’s tight grip loosened slightly, allowing Apple to loop her free foreleg under the avian’s chest and lift Paint off the ground. Then Apple threw Paint down the tunnel.

The avian’s remaining wing fluttered lamely as she tumbled through the air and onto the floor with a crash. She landed on her wingless side, horrible agony erupting in the amputated region, making her cry out and her eyes water. Paint snarled savagely and lurched to her paws with extreme difficulty before leaping on top of Apple’s back. The avian bit her in the back of the neck and shook her head vigorously, tearing through Apple’s skin.

Apple screeched, rolling over on her back and crushing Paint beneath her. A bone in Paint’s remaining wing snapped like a twig, making her scream in agony. She struggled and managed to push Apple off just enough for her to wriggle free. The avian leapt for the empty tunnel, but powerful jaws latched onto her wing. The winged wolf cried out as they tugged her from the air, slamming her to the ground and rolling her on her back.

Apple situated herself as if she was about to give Paint some form of CPR, huge red chest and forelegs raised a foot or two above Paint’s ribcage. Then, with the force and power of a hungry bear opening a metal trashcan, Apple brought all of her weight down on the avian using her forepaws. With a hollow but crunchy WHUMP!!!, Paint’s chest was crushed. The avian screeched, not yet dead, and attempted to wriggle away. But the paws came down again, again, and again.

WHUMP!!!

WHUMP!!!

WHUMP!!!

BAM!!!

-- The final cannon fired.

The last tribute standing stepped away (Breathing quite hard) and surveyed the dead body of Paint. Broken rib bones poked out from underneath the bandages wrapped around the avian’s smashed chest, breaking her skin. Blood, still warm, saturated the gauze. The same scarlet liquid oozed from her mouth, resembling chunky red vomit. Paint probably did vomit as she was dying.

Apple carefully walked around the wolf, avoiding the horrible blank gaze of the avian’s dead eyes. She made her way towards the exit of the tunnels.

Apple was the victor.

THE END

March 31, 2017

Posted by Dragon :) Feel free to ask questions!