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willadisastercry · 4 years ago

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More than ‘just a little tired’: aftermath turned aftershocks part 3

tw: discussion of sever burns and re-burning, lots of pain, also lots of heavy emotions, ptsd symptoms towards the end

Keith is in a lot of pain from just having his wounds cleaned but complications arise that make the relief of the pod that much further away. Tensions are still high and everyone’s emotions are running rampant as they are forced to watch their friend be in so much distress, their friend who never let on when he was anything other than angry, who is now crying and begging for it all to stop. Keith is desperate, his stoic facade has shattered but his body refuses to pass out and they still have to separate him from the bits of the suit that remain...

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

(( haven’t edited yet so ignore for now if it’s riddled with errors or some parts make zero sense lol, enjoy!!! ))

The infirmary was both eerily silent and brimming with commotion, nearly devoid of any conversation or background noise at all aside from muted whispers and the gentle clink of tools as the sound of Keith’s pain filled every dreadful square inch and left little space for much else.

Shrio was still perched on a stool with both hands clasped securely around the one of Keith’s that was accessible, the other hanging over the edge of the table limp and unmoving.

The older boy spoke calm reassurances to him in a low voice, the sentiments themselves not so much soothing as the steady cadence of them were.

It was clear he was still suppressing every wince and grimace though his resolve to remain unbothered seemed to be weakening as he fatigued further. And so Shiro’s gentle tenor worked to ground him as his wherewithal plummeted, the neutral pressure on his hand giving him something else to focus on and keep him from panicking while he lay somewhat paralyzed.

He hadn’t moved much as they cleaned his back up after they gave him the muscle relaxant, not that he could if we wanted to, not when his whole body felt about as solid as jello. The only movements possible were occasional reflexive twitches or sudden bursts of shuddering breaths that had whoever was poking his back pause to give him a minute to steady himself.

That was until the team had separated him from as much of the under-suit as they could with just tweezers and saline... because about 30% of what they’d sectioned off around each wound was still attached and not coming free no matter how hard they pulled or however much saline they poured.

It was then with everything cleaned away that they saw how severe it was, how little of the blur of soot around each blast could actually be cleaned away because it wasn’t his skin that was charred, it was the suit itself.

They couldn’t fix that with tweezers but they had to remove the melted material so the pod didn’t heal around it somehow.

Keith’s attention was admittedly elsewhere when the disorienting haze of pain granted him a few moments of clarity once he realized the only hands still touching him were Shiro’s.

It took him a while, but he was able to cut through the fog enough to vaguely tune in to what was going on around him. He has missed the beginning of the conversation that Shiro was having but it wasn’t hard to piece together what was happening.

“The process should be relatively seemless if I use this—“ Coran noted grimly as he presented Shiro with a scalpel that had a cord attached to the end of it “—the scarring will already be minimal given the pod’s capabilities and the fact that these are mostly second degree, but in order to remove the bits that remain I must burn number four again to sever what joins his flesh to the undersuit...”

Shiro had figured as much and so had Keith.

Well no, his addled brain hadn’t figured much of anything coherent in a while, he just wasn’t surprised to hear that it was the only solution.

Keith wouldn’t consider himself as handy as Hunk or Pidge but he knew his way around tools from having a bike and living on his own for so long. And he couldn’t come up with anything else on hand other than a hot knife that would do that kind of job either.

He also didn’t really care how they did anything anymore. He didn’t have the energy to when all he wanted was for this to be over.

Exhaustion seeped into his bones like radiation, clogging the channels in his marrow where his blood should flow and making his entire body feel so very heavy. It was the kind of weight that lulled you into a deep sleep, yet Keith remained awake, his nerves fried and his mind wired.

Shiro sighed, bowing his head to catch Keith’s pleading eyes one last time before nodding, giving Coran the go ahead.

It’s not that Coran was hiding the tool from the other paladins or what it did, that much was sort of obvious. It’s just that the question didn’t concern them, the decision wasn’t theirs to make. Shiro was their unofficial health proxy now that they were in space and called these kind of shots for all of them, but that was especially true for Keith since he’d already sort of been doing so back at the garrison before Kerberos.

The paladins were of course privy to deciding what happened to their own bodies regarding altean remedies or lesser pod stays since some of the options are pretty out there and if they aren’t absolutely necessary, then they aren’t mandated. But all decisions were passed by Shiro who ensured that their younger counterparts were entirely clear on what they were or were not agreeing to before Coran or Allura did anything, given the situation allotted time to take such measures.

This is one of the rare instances where Shiro had little choice in how to handle the matter. There was only one option and Keith would continue to suffer if he wasted time worrying about what none of them could control.

And it wasn’t even that he was too out of it to know what this meant and be able to deliver the green light himself, the fear on his face when Coran said ‘burn’ was more than apparent. But the kid was so goddamned rational about things no one his age should be able to rationalize that it was clear he had already evaluated and come to terms with the predicament in those brief moments of hesitation before Shiro agreed.

His eyes fall closed again and Shiro thinks he can hear the screams already.

The gravity of the decision seemed to dawn on everyone else a beat later, an anticipatory silence replacing the anguished weight that hung on all of them seconds before.

Everything moved slowly for a moment, the rise of chests halted, the chitter of mice quieting while they searched the princess’s face for answers until reality crashed back down on the castleships’ inhabitants like the tidal surge of a hurricane. The green tinge on Hunk’s face deepened several shades and Allura absently slid a waste bin closer to him, her movements robotic, like she wasn’t all there anymore. Pidge’s sobs from her helpless position on the adjacent cot were almost as painful to hear as Keith’s.

The only one to contest the idea was Lance, the sheer horror of what was about to happen registering on the blue paladin’s face like it was a death sentence for his friend.

“No, that’s torture! You can’t possibly think that’s a good idea, it’s barbaric, it’s—“

“Lance, calm down.”

“I will not calm down! Don’t you see how insane this is?!”

“There’s nothing else we can do. Don’t you see where the hell we are? We’re in space. We are light years away from human healthcare, we kind of have to work with the resources that we have!”

“But there has to be another way! I don’t understand why you’re not trying to figure something else out first... haven’t you hurt him enough today, Shiro? For fuck’s sake, aren’t you supposed to be his br—“

“Do it—” Keith punches out in a harsh whisper, effectively silencing the argument “—j-just do it already.”

His voice was gravelly and weak from all the shouting, his waning energy evident in the exasperated punctuation of his words. He’s fairly sure he won’t remain conscious long enough to be truly traumatized by the a procedure and was growing more irritated the longer they delayed it.

Keith appreciated that Lance had a conscience but also knew full well that he was stuck on the agony he was emoting since he usually never emoted at all, and probably not imagining just how awful it must actually be if he was advocating that more pain be inflicted so the sweet relief of the pod came sooner.

Lucky for him, Coran seemed to grasp the concept well enough on his own.

“Alright my boy, as you wish... Allura you might want to grab something for him to bite down on.”

What remained of the upper half of his under suit lay on him in tatters, his back bare except for the front section beneath him with strips of black littered over the table and floor. There’s a square of material missing on his thigh but the rest of the bottom portion is pretty much in tact.

The wounds looked worse free of all the blood and shredded bits. Like so much worse. But Keith didn’t have to see or be told how horrible it looked, he already knew that however bad it appeared, it hurt a thousand times worse.

“I have a topical anesthetic here that should numb the surface tissue but I’m afraid I can’t make any promises about nerve pain that might go deeper... it will still hurt a great deal.”

Talking was hard. He didn’t have the energy to stay awake let alone speak, but since his body was denying him that mercy, he figured forcing himself to communicate might speed the process along.

“Kay... s’fine,” was all he managed in response, his head swimming slightly as he forced the words out.

Allura’s face came into view then, smiling with so much sadness behind it as she lowered a hand to Keith’s flushed and tear stained cheek, gently coaxing him into opening his mouth.

He was sort of confused as to why until she brought a small hand towel folded in a tight roll up to his chin. His eyes widened a bit but he hummed in understanding and parted his blood encrusted lips so she could place it between his teeth.

They hadn’t had a chance to fuss over the gash on his face with everything else they were focused on but he was also very much laying on top of it. The cut itself also didn’t appear to be giving him much of an issue, but the fact that he was resting his cheek in an ever dampening rag as it caught his blood was woefully uncomfortable, the swelling laceration under his eye endlessly agitated with every reflexive jerk.

The sight might’ve been more alarming if his back wasn’t so horrific.

Shiro searched Keith’s lidded eyes when Coran pressed a button that had the tool whirring to life with a warm orange glow before he set it aside to warm up. They were sluggish and bloodshot and slow enough in meeting his gaze that would’ve had him majorly concerned should he not already have dozens other reasons to be.

“The spray might sting a bit at first... just bear with me lad.”

Coran’s voice was pinched and level, his statements clinical and his hands deft.

He’d already gathered that Keith didn’t need things explained before they were done like Shiro who needed to feel like he was in control of his own body when being tended to, or Pidge and her unwavering need to know absolutely everything ever, or Hunk and his already debilitating anxiety regarding the unknown.

No, he was like Lance who didn’t want the details, didn’t need to know what was happening or when. In fact, he reacted worse when he knew.

Keith needed things done without preamble. It didn’t matter how much it would hurt, he just needed it to hurt before the anticipation that it was about to could consume him. And Coran would do whatever he could to ease the red paladin then, so if that meant working fast than he would work fast.

“Nngh...” Keith choked out against the towel, nearly gagging on it when his entire body jerked as soon as Coran started spraying despite the medicine running through his body to specifically lessen reactions like that. But the man didn’t slow once he started, not even for Keith’s muffled pleas.

The spray did in fact sting. It stung a lot.

His head flew back and his eyes screwed shut as he struggled to breathe through the application, jerking despite himself each time the liquid landed on his raw and burning wounds.

The cloth trapped between his clenched teeth had him sputtering on the spit in his mouth and he almost welcomed the fear that flooded his body when his throat closed to keep from inhaling it.

“I know, bud... looks like just a bit more and then hopefully some relief.”

Shiro looked so young when he was like this, the knitted worry lines on his forehead almost out of place for the age he looked then. Keith didn’t like seeing him like that, it’s what he looks like when he’s having a rough day with his ptsd, so he closed his eyes against the tears that were brimming in the corners of them and took in long, purposeful inhales while Coran finished up.

He felt it as soon as the anesthetic started working, a discernible cold partially quenching each tiny inferno that was at the center of his injuries. It didn’t do much more than place a lid on the fires, not putting anything out completely but it was something and had him sagging into the table at the small bit of respite.

“I’ll be right here the entire time, okay? Coran will try to be as quick as he can but you can do this Keith, you’re strong, I know you can do this...” Shiro rambled, his timbre still subdued and settling.

It was nonsense. It was absolute nonsense he was babbling but the older boy’s voice never wavered and the constant presence of it hung on Keith’s battered body like a warm blanket, soothing the biting chill of anticipation that spread over it before the endless waves of agony started all over again.

“It’s going to be okay, bud.”

Keith clung to his words like they were a broken board from a sinking ship, the only buoyant thing in sight that could keep him from sinking right down with it.

“It’ll be over soon...”

He felt himself physically calming the longer he spoke until suddenly his chest didn’t feel as tight.

“...and then you can rest.”

Because he believed him. He believed that Shiro wouldn’t tell him he would be okay if it wasn’t true.

“We’ll get you set up in the pod...”

And for just a second, he actually believed it would end, that it wouldn’t last forever.

“...and then you’ll start to heal...”

The breaths he took were urgent, almost greedy as he relished in the temporary peace from everything. From the pain, from his anxiety, from feeling so fucking helpless.

“...just a little longer. I promise.”

Shiro made a point not to make many promises to Keith, even if he never planned on being anything other than good on them. He knew that too many had been broken for him to trust a vow like that. The words were empty, just another tool for people he trusted to bait him with before they left.

In Keith’s experience, everyone always left.

“I am going to begin now, remember to breathe lad...”

Before Keith had been holding back most of his exclamations of pain, biting his lip or cheek and setting his jaw to swallow them back before they escaped.

He wasn’t exactly sure what it was that made that impossible now, maybe since he knew the pain would be insurmountably worse or maybe because his body was too tired to expend that kind of energy anymore, either way the only thing muffling the sounds then was the towel keeping him from biting clean through his tongue.

The way his back arched when Coran brought the scalpel down looked like it shouldn’t have been possible in his condition. Keith didn’t know it was possible either but wasn’t too focused on the logistics with how intensely his lungs were screaming as he realized he could no longer move air in or out with how shocking the pain was.

It was like he’d been electrocuted, his muscles spasming and his nerves glitching in override.

“Shit, someone help me hold him down... come on damnit, hold him still!” Shiro ordered when it was apparent that Keith was incapable of controlling his reactions as Coran kept at it with the tool.

The movements were violent and quick, more convulsions than Keith’s own will, but they happened with each slice which made it difficult for Coran to work, so Hunk and Lance repositioned themselves on either side of the table and pinned his chest down wherever was most absent of injury while Shiro kept his head still and attempted to talk him through it.

Allura wasn’t having much luck in soothing Pidge either who was hysterical with her hands clamped over her ears. The guilt she felt over being the reason Keith was now in such intense pain was overwhelming and the princess was deeply concerned that she was going to make herself sick or reopen her only somewhat mended wound.

“Huh, huhh, huh... AHGh!”

Coran ignored how his fingers were blistering from working around the red paladin’s struggles.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry...”

Apologies were pouring out of Shiro like his own blood would.

But Lance didn’t buy them. He couldn’t grasp how their infallible leader missed someone being injured this severely.

And for it to be Keith of all people.

He’d spent half of his young adult life on his own, looking out for himself, no other support. He wasn’t used to having a team to look out for him especially since the last time anyone had was when Shiro had taken him under his wing. Shiro who had pretty much promised not to give up on him only to leave for Kerberos and never come back.

And what’s worse, as if anything could get worse at this point, was that Keith genuinely hadn’t wanted their help. He would’ve insisted he was okay whether or not his injuries were known regardless, but Shiro overlooking him in the heat of the moment had only fueled his warped view on taking care of things himself. It made him think he didn’t deserve any help, like he was being selfish for even suggesting he might not be okay when Pidge was also hurt.

It wasn’t true. But Lance knew that Keith couldn’t always decipher those kinds of things, the subtle messages in tonality that other people would’ve instantly picked up as, ‘no, I don’t actually hate you’ but completely eluded him.

Because Keith was extremely literal. He was also a self sacrificial idiot. Kinda like Lance. Not the literal thing, Lance almost never spoke literally.

But Shiro knew that, he knew that Shiro knew all of that about Keith and yet here they were.

His eyes were glossy and he was livid. It didn’t make any sense. They were supposed to look out for each other. It was Shiro’s whole philosophy and here he was, a complete hypocrite.

Pidge let out a strangled hitch then that broke Lance’s focus on analyzing whatever the hell had gone down on that mission.

The guilt was raging an almost identical fire in her chest, licking at her lungs like there was lighter fluid on them and threatening the sinews that had just barely latched across the chasm in her abdomen.

Hunk wished he could cry, wished he didn’t have to be so close to the terrible mess that was his friends’ back or the sounds he was making.

He didn’t know how many more he could stand to hear. How many more times he could handle the pang of terror in his chest when one escaped the lips of either of his friends.

Anytime anyone was hurting he felt like he was too. Like he had an access pass to their pain or some wicked ability to envision exactly how it must feel. And between Keith bucking beneath his hands and the guttural groans smothered by the towel, Hunk’s stomach was flipping dangerously.

Keith’s strained huffs had turned into hysterical shouts.

“Coran,” Allura deadpanned, her voice low and deadly.

They’d started off with a sort of restraint but it hadn’t taken long for them to raise in volume. He hated it, he was too tired to be so vocal and his throat was aching, but he couldn’t help it.

If it was up to him he would’ve just relaxed and taken it. He was used to simply enduring in the moment and compartmentalizing as he went. He had no experience in allowing such real reactions, in being so vulnerable against his every will.

Taking it silently would’ve been just as painful, there was no changing that, but maybe then he wouldn’t have had to see everyone so upset.

But he couldn’t relax. And he couldn’t use his twisted reason to logic himself out of it.

“This is cruel-I can-I can ease his suffering with my powers, move aside and let me—“

“Princess.”

Coran sounded distressed, almost pained. It was the first hint of emotion he’d shown since they’d dragged Keith into medbay.

“You couldn’t heal him without going into a pod first or it would start depleting the quintessence of your life force... we don’t have time for that, you know what my answer is—“

“But it’s worth it! Just a second, even just a touch would make the world of a difference, please—“

“Allura... come on, let him work.”

Lance looked angry still, and Shiro wasn’t sure he blamed him anymore, but the princess’s voice was shaking and his hand on her arm was pulling her away from Coran gently.

And she let him, the sob that erupted from her throat startling everyone. But Lance was there, the usual smirk he wore when speaking to the princess noticeably absent as he braced his her shoulders because they were shaking too.

Shiro is pressing Keith’s chest down flat where Lance had been after he Coran hissed at the heat of the tool while he continued to thrash.

The energy in the room was so dark and heavy it was almost sinister.

But the worst part was seeing it on his face. The desperation in his expressions was gutting. It felt like a sort of betrayal, which in a way it was, but so was the alternative.

Shiro tried to keep up his rambles of assurance but found the sentiments catching in his throat.

It had become wildly apparent that they were more comforting to him than they were to Keith, but he repeated them still, the same nonsense over and over again like a prayer. The swipe of his metal thumb clearing the endless stream of tears out of his eyes was the only constant other than the sound of his own screaming sobs.

And the pain.

His sobs and the pain.

It was blinding and it was everywhere. He couldn’t get away from it. Couldn’t get away from himself or the terrible sounds he was making.

All of it was suffocating. The fire poker dragging against his already charred skin, the hands holding him still, Shiro’s words, his own cries, all of it.

The air was filled with a bitter and nauseating heat, the smell of his own flesh burning permeated it and made him cry harder.

He wanted to throw up, wanted to pass out, hell if he died right there he wouldn’t have even minded.

He just wanted everything to stop.

He didn’t think he could stand much more of it but his body wouldn’t give in. His screams had morphed into one piercing and continuous wail as every limit he had was tested and shattered.

Keith thought he could handle pain fairly well, but this was absurd. This pain was otherworldly.

It’s only when he spits the rag out for the millionth time and begins chanting his own prayer that Shiro really wavered, his hand halting abruptly as he went to put it back between his teeth before they tore through his tongue the next time Coran moved his tool.

But Coran had taken the glowing metal away for a moment and was fiddling with something, so when Shiro leaned in to replace the cloth he could finally make out what he was saying.

“...D-d-d-da-dad... pl-please, dad... dad m-make it st-stop... dad...”

The words were slurred and barely audible with how wrecked his throat was, but there was no denying it.

“Oh, Keith...” Shiro breathed before his jaw was working to muffle his own pitiful sounds.

He was in such a delirium that he was calling out for his father, the man who Keith hadn’t called out to in years because he was dead. He’d left him in the most final way someone could leave.

Shiro didn’t know how many promises his death might’ve broken, just that the words Keith was uttering were what finally broke him.

Allura’s cheeks were still wet with tears but stepped forward anyway and moved the towel back into place, her hands running through and smoothing down Keith’s wild locks all tossed out of place from writhing.

She bent down to speak softly into his ear, Shiro didn’t catch much over the ringing in his own while his eyes locked into place on the towel in his mouth and the blood staining his chin and neck, though he thought he heard something about him being strong, him doing so well...

“Shiro.”

The hand on his arm didn’t make him jump because he couldn’t feel it. The room was expanding and he was shrinking because Keith’s whimpering was beginning to sound like the despairing cries before someone or something died in the arena.

The arena...

His eyes open wide and flit around wildly, the room abruptly fitting back to size.

“Huh?”

Shiro was good at snapping himself back to reality when he needed to, good at functioning at half capacity just to see through whatever he was in the middle of until it was safe to let the lights of the arena bleed into his present.

Not that acknowledging his memories was ever safe. And not that reliving them in his cabin was any safer.

Just easier.

“What is it?”

“I’m starting again...”

He hadn’t noticed that he’d backed up into Pidge’s bed or that her tiny hand had wound its way into his.

“...and he’s asking for you.”

“Right.”

His voice was sturdy again, hands no longer trembling. He could do this.

The whirring of the tool sounds too much like his metal arm, it glows orange instead of purple but that doesn’t seem to matter because it’s cutting into Keith’s skin all the same and the screams that escape his mouth cut into Shiro just as bad.

But he pushes it all away. He can unpack the emotions that rise up with it later but Keith needed him now.

The initial twitches that wracked his brutalized frame when Coran brought the tool back down had Allura turning away and the smoke that rose up with the first slice had Hunk clamping a hand over his mouth and nose. But the princess’s hand never stopped brushing through his hair and Hunk kept the grip on his shoulder firm.

They could feel his muscles loosening, could feel the power of each jerk dwindling.

And then they watched with heavy consciences as even his steady cries quieted, his body finally waving the white flag.

“I’m sorry...”

Shiro chanted it so many times that the syllables blended together and turned into something else altogether.

Keith’s breathing was more erratic than it ever had been and it didn’t seem like he could see straight anymore so Shiro lowered his forehead to Keith’s and draped his metal arm over his neck.

Both were damp with sweat that created condensation on his hand, his hair wet with it and plastered all over, but Shiro couldn’t find it in him to care. He needed him to know that he was there, that he hadn’t left.

“I’m here, Keith. And I’m sorry...”

But his cheeks were flushing with something other than straight up exertion. And Shiro felt it, felt his hand go cold while all the blood raced to his head. He knew what was happening but he wasn’t worried.

He was relieved.

“I’m so sorry...”

The rag falls out again because his jaw had gone slack and his eyes were rolling to the back of his head. Shiro didn’t move to fix it.

His breathing still irregular but falling into a more even rhythm.

Lance looks stricken and Hunk is rather green when they let go and step back.

Pidge had finally found the ability to relax abs was slumping into the bed, eyes glued to Coran’s hand who was still not done.

Still not okay. Still not in a pod, but no longer in pain.

Hunk took exactly one deep breath before devolving into tears. He was done being strong, but Lance never seems to get the luxury and was pulling him into a hug that didn’t have him standing any straighter or have his chest working any less, but it was something.

Coran’s hands move slow and he doesn’t seem to feel the red welts on his fingertips from wrestling with his tools. But he looked more at ease with Keith blissfully unconscious, like he was breathing again.

Shiro was still holding Keith’s hand. It was ice cold and looking sort of blue with the white blotches dotting it. He leaves his other hand on his neck where his skin is hotter, figuring if the cool metal could be useful for anything other than killing, it might just be that.

Lance eyes the distance in Shiro’s gaze, the rigidity in his movements, and he thinks he understands. He thinks he can overlook his anger to remember that the guy is still human.

He’s almost scared that he was speaking out loud when Shiro rakes his grey pinpoints around the room, not appearing to actually see any of it before passing over Lance’s briefly. Hunk has his head burrowed in his chest as he fights to regain his composure but he musters up a small smile for him despite being otherwise occupied.

It’s a peace offering. A sad one at that, the corners of his mouth barely perking up, but it’s something.

Shiro wasn’t sure if he returned it but his heart felt lighter once Lance did that.

The energy in the room was still buzzing but it was less stifling, not as heavy as it had been moments ago.

The artificial sunlight starts to turn purple again and he can hear desperation mix into the buzz and for a second Shiro is worried that Keith has woken up. In a bit of a panic he drags his gaze back down to find his eyes still closed and his face still scrunched up like he hadn’t escaped the pain entirely with sleep.

But that was infinitely better than him sounding like them, the dying things he was hearing.

He vaguely wondered if the medbay was a safe enough place to let the purple flood in and ultimately decided that it didn’t matter.

He’d staved it off long enough, was strong for Keith when he needed him to be.

And so he lets himself drift.

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writeyouin · 4 years ago

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Swerve X Reader – Changes - Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – A Rescue Without a Plan

A/N – Finally back to this baby, and boy am I glad to be back.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

“Making your way in the world today, takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.” You sang the Cheers song quietly in your cell, concentrating heavily on the cell bars.

Ever since you had forced yourself to calm down, streams of information had come flooding across your optics, revealing structural strengths and weaknesses to everything you looked at. You hoped to find something about the electrified bars that might lead to your escape, but so far, all the weaknesses were ones you couldn’t exploit from within the cell. You had long since given up on desperately trying to contact the Lost Light, figuring that something was blocking your comms.

You sighed, giving up on your song, a childish idea coming to mind. You knew nothing would come of it, but a smile reached your lips as you stared at your hand, “Go-Go-Gadget, Lock Pick.”

Naturally, nothing happened, but at least you were entertained, so you continued the game, taking comfort in the familiar words. “Go-Go-Gadget, Gun. Go-Go-Gadget, Scanner. Go-Go-Gadget, Blow Torch-” You jumped back in shock as one of your fingertips split open at the command, a strong blue flame roaring up from the split. You didn’t know whether you should be praising Brainstorm, for this was most certainly his addition, or cursing him for the cartoonish way you had accessed the tool. You were almost afraid to wonder how many of your body’s other commands were linked to the phrase Go-Go-Gadget.

Without wasting any more time, you put the flame to the bars, beginning the laborious process of escaping your cell.

As you worked, you had one more idea which you hastily tried, “Go-Go-Gadget, Manual.”

Before your optics, a string of writing cropped up, instructions on how your Cybertronian body worked. “Play audio,” You said, having been introduced to the opening menu. Perceptor’s voice filled your audials, starting your tutorial on your new body. You vented air through your systems and got to work, studying during your attempted escape.

Once he had been released from his cell, Swerve spent all of his time at the Lost Light’s shooting range, his aim never improving despite his efforts. He knew he had little hope of becoming a soldier in the time it would take to get to you, but he didn’t care, so long as he had something to keep him occupied. How could other humans be so cruel as to throw you of all people in a battle arena? You were kind and compassionate, and you would never have even considered harming another species, claiming that all were equal.

Swerve had often found you crying over books wherein humans had treated others terribly, mostly among their own species. He remembered asking you why you chose to read such books as The Diary of Anne Frank or Boy Erased, if they only served to make you upset, and you had replied that they were important to read lest history be repeated from ignorance. It was awful to think that you, the most empathetic of souls, were going to be scrapped for the entertainment of others.

Swerve knew they didn’t have long to rescue you. If the Arena’s advertisements were to be believed, you would be entering one of their battles in less than three cycles, when the new contestants would arrive to scrap you.

Swerve couldn’t forget the picture they had uploaded of you on the advertisement. You had been harmed in ways he never wanted to see, deep gashes in your arms and visible dents everywhere, yet in the picture, you were defiantly angry. He alone could recognise the fear beneath, but he couldn’t be prouder to see that you weren’t giving your captor the satisfaction of your apprehension.

He reloaded his gun, aiming it at the target, imagining it was your captors. Despite his anger, he missed, hitting a spot on the wall at least six feet from the target. Coolant sprung to his optics. You were in danger and he was completely useless. He couldn’t pilot the ship, he couldn’t shoot, it wasn’t even him that had discovered your location; that had been Nightbeat while he was too busy feeling sorry for himself. He was useless.

Rodimus’ voice rang clear through Swerve’s comms. It was a channel he had left open until you were found; that way anyone who needed him could contact him.

“Swerve, get to the board room. We have news on (Y/N).”

Swerve brusquely wiped the coolant from his optics, throwing the gun on the table before leaving. As soon as he was in the hallway, he transformed, speeding to the board room, eager for any information he could get, yet also terrified about what it could mean for you.

He didn’t say anything as he entered, his attention, like everyone else’s drawn to the video-feed of the Arena, where a human woman in acid-green armour was speaking.

“Greetings to fans, peasants, and nobles alike. It is I, Lady Ouida, your adored host of the Arena.”

Lady Ouida. Swerve glared at her holographic form, now having a name and a face to put to his enemy.

“As all of us betting royals know, there is to be a new competitor here. The foul-mouthed mini menace has refused to state her name, but we don’t care about that. We only care about one thing and one thing only. Which of our noble competitors will be the one to take her out?”

Banners depicting different armoured competitors unfurled around Lady Ouida; the scumbags that would try to take your life.

“In this message to all of you, my lovely subjects, I would like to make a special announcement. Although we had planned to set the battle for three cycles time, we have hit a little snag.”

Warmth flared in Swerve’s spark, as he hoped that the battle would be delayed even further, giving the Lost Light more time for your rescue.

Lady Ouida snapped her fingers, motioning for someone off-screen to do her bidding. The hope that Swerve had dared to feel was quickly extinguished as several trucks with chain attachments drove forward, dragging you behind them, the chains affixed to your arms.

“Our little menace here was caught roaming the halls of our fair kingdom, trying to escape her fate. She may not look like much, but she has proved to be very resourceful indeed, which I am sure you’ll keep in mind when betting.”

It looked like you desperately wanted to retort, but a modified gag stopped you from doing so. It didn’t stop you from attempting to kick at several of your captors, your pede falling short of its mark.

“NO!” Swerve cried out as you were electrocuted, making you fall to the floor. The others in the room spared him looks of pity before their attention returned to Lady Ouida.

“Spirited, is she not?” The Lady continued, spurred on by your attempted attack. “Alas, that brings me to my next point. We cannot keep her subdued for long and as such, we will have to cut betting short. You will have till the end of the cycle, for at dawn THE BATTLE BEGINS.”

The feed ended with a screen of competitors and their odds against you.

Rodimus wasted no time in addressing the room, all traces of his usual playfulness gone. “ETA to the Arena?” He asked no one in particular.

“Two cycles at most,” One of the Co-pilots answered.

“Not good enough. If you have to burn out the engines, you’ll get us there tonight. Strategy?”

Megatron brought up a hologram for the planet, pointing out the building on the map, a modernised castle with plasma-turrets as its main defences. “If it were me, I’d have the turrets hacked. The fastest route to the Arena itself is by the West wall. The ship is far too big to hide, so our best option is an outright assault. We could blast through the walls with an Alpha team. Meanwhile, a smaller Beta Team could attack the Northern ramparts, where we believe the prison cells to be located, in case (Y/N) is still being held there.”

“Who’s our hacker for this?”

“We have an accomplished team that will be led by Skids.”

“What will we need to get through the castle’s walls?”

“Ultra Magnus assures me that he has a supply of confiscated weapons from Whirl and Brainstorm.”

Rodimus nodded in acknowledgement, “You know Megatron, it’s rare, but on occasions such as this, I’m glad that you’re a crazed war-lord with a lot of strategic experience.”

Megatron looked uncomfortable at the compliment but didn’t comment.

Swerve raised his hand in what he assumed was a military fashion, “I’d like to be in the Alpha team.”

Rodimus took in some air with an awkward hiss, “Yeahhh, about that. Don’t you think you’d be better off, uh waiting to comfort (Y/N) in the med-bay or something? You’re um- You’re not exactly a good shot.”

Swerve bristled at the veiled insult. “THAT IS MY CONJUNX ENDURAE. I’LL BE GOING DOWN THERE EVEN IF I HAVE TO STEAL A POD-SHIP!”

“Okay, yep, cool. You’re there to rescue (Y/N), got it. Just… Maybe stay behind the rest of us, okay? Wait no. You go in front, I don’t want to be shot in the back or anything-” Rodimus stopped talking when he noticed more than one bot glaring at him for his lack of tact. “I mean, uh- You just go where you think is best, buddy. You got this.”

“Let’s just continue going over the plan,” Megatron interrupted, turning his attention back to the planetary holograph.

Thankfully, nobody questioned Swerve further, and he was free to remain undisturbed as the meeting went on.

Once again, you were behind bars but this time you were outside of the prison block. You were now in the centre of the Arena, which greatly resembled the Ancient Colosseums of Earth. You cradled your servo close to your body, the pain immense where your captors had crushed it after they had caught you trying to use the blow torch a second time; if there was any hope of returning to Swerve, it wouldn’t be the same way you escaped before.

With nothing else to do, you resumed listening to the recorded manual. Theoretically, you knew how to scan a vehicle and transform, so long as you found something to scan. Maybe you could convince Ouida to show you a vehicle in order to make the games more interesting. You doubted that plan would work, but if Ouida thought you were going to die in her games anyway, she might grant the request.

“In the event that you are in danger and need to record a message into your processor for an ally to discover-”

You focused on Perceptor’s instructions. Now seemed like the perfect time to record a message for Swerve, should he ever find your body. You tried to focus as your processor informed you that your voice and surroundings were being recorded.

“Swerve, I wish I could see you right now to tell you everything that’s on my mind, but if you’re watching this… Well, we know what’s happened.” You tried to keep your tone happy, but it proved to be impossible when thinking of the last time you had seen Swerve and how badly that had gone. You couldn’t stop from crying as you continued.

“Swerve, you are my whole world. I love you so much and I’m so sorry about how I acted. I was scared and confused, and… That’s no reason for the way I was. I’m terrified of what might happen to you if I die. Please, don’t think sadly on this. You have so much time left in the universe, and it’s a brighter place with you in it. No matter what happens, I need you to remember, I’m sticking with you. Never forget that you have my heart, always. I’m sorry that this is goodbye. I love you.”

Ending the feed, you hugged your knees to your chassis with your good hand, while you sat in silence and wept.

Swerve gripped the base of his chair, in the cruiser that the Alpha team had taken, hard enough to dent it. Upon reaching a close enough proximity to the planet’s surface, he had received a few dozen delayed private comms from you, the last of which was time-stamped only one hour prior. You were being kept in a cage, telling him how sorry you were and how much you loved him. If you were sticking with him, then he was going to stick right back to you.

Turbulence hit the ship, but Swerve’s determination didn’t waver. He knew it was just the first volley of attacks from the turrets, until Skids’ team would be able to disable them. Swerve remembered feeling like this thousands of times in the war. The feeling that you could be shot down at any moment on the way to your goal, but that you couldn’t think about death, lest it leech into your processor, freezing out all other thoughts. Swerve wouldn’t die. He couldn’t. Not while you were in danger. You were his mission and this was just another, smaller, war.

Swerve remembered his very first mission. His entire squadron had died, except for him. Being a mini-bot, he’d managed to hide without being discovered; he’d spent centuries hating himself for living as a coward instead of dying a hero with the rest of his squad. As it turned out, many bots had had similar experiences which haunted them. This time, he would not hide, his team would survive, they would rescue you, and Swerve would tell you every minute of every day that he loved you.

“SKIDS,” Rodimus yelled over the comms, “A LITTLE HELP WITH THE FRAGGING TURRETS.”

“Working on it,” Skids replied frantically. “They have one hell of an IT team there, Rodimus. The turrets are encrypted at least five times over.”

“Great. I’ll pass on the compliment when I meet them. Can you stop the turrets or not?”

There was a sharp silence on Skids end which was answer enough; the team would have to go in under fire.

“Okay,” Rodimus looked to his team. Ultra Magnus, Tailgate, Cyclonus, and Swerve were there, along with a few other volunteers that made their number twenty. “Plan B. We drive fast and furious, ploughing through their defences.”

The team were less enthusiastic at the thought of being shot, but none of them buckled under pressure; everyone was ready to go to your aid.

“Beta team, in position?” Rodimus asked, as they had planned to do before the Alpha Team dropped down onto the planet’s surface.

“Negative,” Megatron replied. His team comprised of Drift, Nautica, Nightbeat, and Brainstorm. It was decided that a smaller team would be better for infiltration. “The blueprints were wrong. We landed right in their armoury and are facing heavy fire.”

“HEY, NO, NOT COOL. WE WERE FACING HEAVY FIRE FIRST.” Rodimus pouted. “THAT’S OUR THING. GET YOUR OWN THING.”

“Don’t be a sparkling,” Megatron hissed. “Rendezvous here. We need backup.”

Swerve crushed another part of his chair. Meeting up with the beta team would lead them further away from you. They should face the turrets, consequences be damned. Swerve imagined reaching over to the control panel and forcing the team to drop. If he wasn’t afraid to have their energon on his servos, he’d do it. However, frustrating as it was, he left the planning up to the Co-Captains, itching for the moment that he would finally be useful. So far, everything in the plan was falling apart.

“Get ready to fight, crew,” Rodimus warned as the cruiser approached the Beta Teams location. Everyone stood up, heading to the back of the ship, “Dropping in three, two, one.”

The doors opened, leaving all the transformed vehicles to drive out on the ramp, jumping the gap onto the planet. There, the battle began. A handful of Cybertronians against a few hundred organics, none of whom seemed to be human; perhaps Lady Ouida was the only human among the organics that inhabited the planet.

Swerve raged with every shot he took. In hallways full to the brim of enemies, even he couldn’t miss. His blaster kept ringing off with compliments. Good job. Nice shootin’ Tex. You’re my hero.

However, as many shots as he got in, the enemies didn’t drop. It seemed that they were immune to most of the weapons, only stumbling slightly before they got back up to fight.

“This isn’t working,” Cyclonus growled through gritted teeth, him and Drift being the only ones to do any real damage with their swords, though they kept getting pushed back by the horde.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Rodimus said sardonically. “Time for plan C.”

“We don’t have a plan C,” Ultra Magnus reported.

“Then improvise.”

From the corner of his optic, Swerve saw a flash of green and he spun around to see Lady Ouida herself. She was climbing over the rubble, apparently trying to reach the fast-firing ballista behind the invaders of her castle. Full of rage at the human who had dared to harm his Conjunx Endurae, Swerve rushed at her, screaming. He tackled her to the ground, grunting as she stabbed a plasma dagger into his side. He would worry about the pain later, when you were safe. For now, he didn’t care, as that was the only weapon she had and she couldn’t retrieve it from his side now that he had her arms firmly in his grasp.

Swerve had always prided himself on being gentle with you, his beloved human. However, with Ouida in his grip, he was all too aware of how easy it would be to crush every bone in her body with only the slightest bit of pressure.

“WHERE IS MY CONJUNX?” He spat at her.

“Dead.” Lady Ouida lied. “As you will be soon enough, robotic scum.”

Swerve didn’t bother to press her on her deception, knowing instinctively that she wouldn’t talk, no matter what he did. Instead, he carried her towards her army, making sure the creatures could see her.

“I HAVE YOUR LEADER,” He roared at them. “LET US PASS, OR I’LL CRUSH HER.”

The organics stopped shooting, eerily expressionless as they lowered their weapons. Ouida shot her captors a disgusted look, hating that they had bested her experimental mutants. They were made to follow orders and protect the castle, but they had also been designed to ensure that she wouldn’t be harmed; with her as a captive, they were useless.

Swerve made his way forward, but Rodimus grabbed his shoulder-plate, pulling him back.

“Hey, loving the energy buddy,” Rodimus complimented Swerve. “Great improv and all, but uh, the Arena is the other way.”

“Oh,” Swerve looked at the mutant army, who were watching Ouida like a dog watching its master. “In that case, don’t follow us, or I’ll crush her.”

“YEAH,” Rodimus fist-pumped the air. “LET’S GO RESCUE (Y/N).”

You didn’t know what to say as you were faced with the many faces of the Lost Light that you thought you’d never see again, but most importantly Swerve. For a moment, you were half-convinced that you were hallucinating again, but then he had pushed Lady Ouida into Drift’s arms and he was holding you.

He kissed your helm, pulling you into his chassis, checking over every inch of you for injuries. “(Y/N),” he murmured. “My (Y/N).”

“Swerve,” You cried his name. “Swerve. I was so scared I’d never see you-”

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here now. I love you. Always,” He repeated your message to you, letting you alone know that he had received it.

“Not to interrupt this reunion,” Megatron said sombrely, “But enemy reinforcements could arrive at any moment, and we need to get you two to medical treatment immediately.”

For the first time, you noticed the gash in Swerve’s side, coated with freshly congealed energon; he had taken the dagger out prior to seeing you.

“She hurt you… She-”

It was your turn to scream at Ouida, “YOU HURT MY CONJUNX ENDURAE.”

You reached out to crush her with your good arm, but Drift dragged Ouida into safety, “Sorry (Y/N), but she’s our ticket out of here. If we kill her, we have no leverage.”

You glared at Ouida, “You’re lucky he values all life, you hateful witch.”

Ouida rolled her eyes, unperturbed by the raving antics of a non-organic.

“Come on, (Y/N),” Swerve ushered you ahead of the group. “It’s time for us to go home.”

Home. You thought of your hab-suite aboard the Lost Light where you had built your life with Swerve; you couldn’t wait to get back to it. Letting Swerve cradle you in his arms, you leaned on him and took your first steps back towards home.

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itsbenedict · 4 years ago

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I didn’t post about everything I played this year, so here’s my opinions on the stuff I played that I didn’t make a rec post for:

Raging Loop

Raging Loop is one of them twisty meta Zero Escape-y branching-path visual novels where an ensemble cast is trapped in a mysterious circumstance where people are dying gruesomely, and you have to find out what’s happening and stop it by looping a bunch.

I can’t wholeheartedly recommend it, because... it tries to have its cake and eat it too with the supernatural elements. Clearly magic is real and has important impacts on the scenario, but then other parts are trickery you’re supposed to see through, and it’s entirely uninterested in cluing you in to how that trickery was accomplished. Not exactly a fair play mystery, in that regard- you have to kind of just be along for the ride, rather than try to figure it out.

That said, it’s a good ride- pretty strong character writing, and the central conceit of the Werewolf/Mafia-style murder scenario creates really interesting drama. It’s more concerned with making itself feel clever than letting the player feel clever, but it’s still well-paced and gripping and has a pretty decent resolution.

Detective Grimoire

I recommended Tangle Tower, the sequel, pretty strongly- and this one, while obviously a little rougher around the edges with the art and mechanics (the suspicion tracker system is a total dud; I didn’t even realize it existed until I realized I was missing an achievement for using it), it’s still pretty darn good. Really fun character designs and animations, fully-voiced, and a solid whodunit backing it all. Plus- while the two are more or less self-contained, the continuity threads with Tangle Tower raised some really interesting questions.

Contradiction - the all-video murder mystery

This one was pretty fun, largely on the strength of the actors. The main mechanic of interrogating people on evidence and using their own statements against each other was some good stuff, too. Definitely had that Phoenix Wright quality to the deductions, and Jenks is a really fun character. (Had a few points where progression was just linked to standing in a certain previously-abandoned area of the map where a clue was suddenly there for no reason, there- good thing it had a hint system.)

As a mystery, it could use a little work- most of what you end up finding out is sequel bait (for a sequel that never actually came together, unfortunately), and the actual whodunit is just sort of hiding in the cracks of all that. And... cornering the culprit just sort of happens out of nowhere once you’ve got your hands on the right piece of evidence, without much fanfare. You’re following up on leads like usual, you find a little lie in someone’s testimony, and then- oh, shit, they’re just confessing everything! Unlike all the previous times you questioned them and they were super evasive like everyone else! And then the game is over.

All in all, it’s pretty meaty and entertaining and I’d recommend it, but unfortunately the creators have moved on to other things, so there’s not going to be any follow-up on the stuff it left unresolved.

Ikenfell

Ikenfell is a tightly-designed RPG about kids at a magic school, with Paper Mario-style action command mechanics and a battle system that makes a big deal out of careful positioning and movement, which was really enjoyable. The difficulty’s a little high (I recommend always always always speccing into max damage because killing things before they kill you is worth more than any amount of defense, speed doesn’t work, and healing is cheap), but I found it really satisfying.

There’s... something... off? About... I don’t know how to put it, it’s... doing that “yes, everyone is queer and mentally ill, deal with it” thing, which, sure, okay. But for a lot of them it’s such a background thing, like... half the playable cast is unambiguously nonbinary, but like... I don’t know if it’s trying to make some statement on how there are no rules to being NB and you can 100% perform a particular binary gender presentation but still count, or if they wrote the whole story and then changed the pronouns of some of the characters for Representation Points, or what. Probably the former? I dunno, it just feels weird. Maybe I’m just not woke enough to Get It.

(unrelatedly: why the heck is the official art they use everywhere so... off-model? none of them look like they do in-game- they look like the creator commissioned someone to draw a group shot with one reference image each and didn’t tell them anything about the characters. how much you wanna bet they commissioned a friend and it came out wrong but they were too polite to say “sorry, no, this is wrong, can you do it over?”)

Trails of Cold Steel IV

Hoo boy. It’s... not great, and it’s not great in a pretty predictable way for an even-numbered entry in the Trails series. It happens every time- first there’s a game in a new engine with new characters and a new world to explore, and it’s really nice and does interesting things... and then it ends on a cliffhanger, and then there’s a sequel game in the same engine with the same characters and the same world, reusing as many assets as possible. Also the League Of Generically Evil Anime Supervillains is there causing trouble for reasons they refuse to explain, and the plot is a storm of magicbabble and macguffin-chasing that makes little to no sense.

Cold Steel IV is that for Cold Steel III, full stop. Welcome back to all the same places you visited last game, except this time there’s some stupid magic apocalypse happening (not that it stops you from taking the time to do random sidequests constantly, of course). The whole “oh, the evil curse mind controls people and that’s why they do stupid bullshit that’s in no one’s interest” plot point is leaned on super hard, and it’s just a big yawn the whole way through.

It’s still really fun, though, because the battle system remains really well-designed. (The same battle system that was just as fun in Cold Steel III, mind you, but it hasn’t gotten old.) And- though they’re struggling to square it with the dumb mind control apocalypse plot, the NPC dialogue continues to make the world feel believable and lived-in. They don’t slack on the parts that make Trails good- it’s just the parts that make Trails bad are making themselves more evident than ever.

did finally get to date Towa though so that’s a win

One Step From Eden

OSFE is... uh. It’s fucking hard is what it is. It’s sort of a deckbuilding roguelike, and there’s this combat that takes place on a grid, and- wait, it’s like Mega Man Battle Network, it’s exactly like Mega Man Battle Network. Man, I forgot about that, but the mechanical influence is extremely obvious. It’s MMBN meets Slay the Spire.

Except it’s super duper hard as hell, because unlike MMBN you can’t pause and swap out chips or anything- everything is just always happening so much, all at once, everywhere, and you have no recourse but to git gud and learn all the enemy patterns and the behavior of your own spells and develop the twitch reflexes necessary to not fucking die from all the shit that’s on the screen always.

(What’s the story? Uhhhh, there was some kind of magic apocalypse, and some anime girls are trying to reach a city for some reason that doesn’t really get explained ever. The game doesn’t really care to build its world at all- it’s all mechanics plus a little token character dialogue that doesn’t say much.)

The point is it’s really frickin’ hard but I am an epic pro gamer and I got ALL THE ACHIEVEMENTS, MOTHERFUCKER. If you’ve played it, I expect you to be really god damn impressed with me, okay???

A Short Hike

This one was really relaxing! It’s a platformer where you explore an Animal Crossing-y island of cartoon animal people, collecting mobility upgrades- but like, mainly it’s about straight chillin’. The flight controls are fun and there’s lots of little secrets to find and it’s just a nice time that doesn’t drag on too long. Not too much to say about this one.

Pokémon Sword

Ehhhhh.

I’m not here for the hot takes about how Dexit is good actually. Development hell happened, they had to make cuts for time, I get it. It’s disappointing and makes the game a little bit worse, but it’s not the end of the world.

Apart from that... perfectly serviceable? The Wild Area could’ve used a little more technical polish (as could most things in the game, really) but was a step in the right direction, giving the player a wider array of early-game team-building options than ever before. No HMs is good. Story and characters were kind of nothing, but that’s par for the course. “At least this time they’re not shoehorning in some kind of stupid evil-team-wants-legendary-pokemon-to-destroy-the-world apocalypse plot”, I thought to myself before they managed to shoehorn one in at the last minute with zero buildup- but, hey, beats wasting half the game on it.

It’s nothing special and it’s missing a lot of polish, but its problems are mainly due to being rushed, and presumably next gen they’ll be able to reuse a lot of the models and animations (maybe even improve the animations so they’re not so boring??? a man can dream) and make something interesting. SwSh seem like they were testing the waters for something else, and not taking too many chances in the meantime.

(yo why would you sell all these cosmetic items and then turn them all off during gym battles, though)

Hades

Hades is- oh, who am I kidding? Everyone knows Hades, it’s the game of the year, greatest thing since sliced bread, Supergiant are heroes, yada yada yada. I’ve played almost 300 hours of it and I’ve completed everything except all the Resources Director levels (currently a Sigma Wraith), it’s extremely fun and you don’t need me to tell you that.

Petal Crash

It was that thing the Paranatural creator helped on? It’s, uh. It’s a block-sliding puzzle game thing, sort of in a Puyo Puyo vein. It has fun character designs and some good dialogue, like you’d expect from Zack’s involvement, but it didn’t really leave an impression otherwise (besides how got dang infuriating some of its Turn Trial puzzles can be.) The story is... kinda heartwarming, kinda didactic, kinda childish, not especially deep or interesting. Hard for it to be, when it’s told through little bits of fluffy character dialogue that exist to set up a puzzle battle as quickly as possible. Not super recommended unless you really really like block-sliding puzzles.

Hollow Knight

Man, why’d I sleep on this for so long? It’s a metroidvania platformer with heavy Dark Souls inspiration, in terms of tone and difficulty and death mechanics and environmental storytelling. And it’s... apart from all that, just really good as a game, with tight controls and juicy movement and great animation. Progression is linked as much to mastery as it is to upgrades collected- I found myself in lategame areas facing down things that would’ve killed me ten times over at the start- not because I had the best gear, but because I’d learned the game’s language and understood how to move in ways that wouldn’t get me killed.

(Usually. Sometimes I’d walk into a room and sit on a bench and suddenly there’d be a boss fight and I’d get slaughtered. Ain’t that just the way it goes?)

Anyway, on top of all that it’s just charming as hell, with a really unique and well-realized world full of little bug people. I love how, like, your character is clearly some kind of eldritch abomination, but it’s small and cute and so everyone (besides enemies that attack you on sight because they’re possessed by some kinda evil mold) is like “awww, who’s this little guy? want some help, little guy?”

(except Zote, who is just an ass hole. i love him.)

#game rec #also some game non recs #long post

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im-hqlover · 4 years ago

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Arranged marriage/Royal AU - Chapter 1 - The wedding.

A / n - hey, today I bring something that I was planning to do for some time, but I never had any inspiration on how to do this, until I read a fanfic about an arranged marriage between Jason and the reader, and that inspired me, so credits to @writingblock101 , who was the fanfic writer that I read. I hope you don't mind me being inspired by your fanfic. (and I must say, it was very good, I just loved reading)

Hope you like it!

(none of the images used on the aesthetic belong to me, credit to their creators)

Warnings: arranged marriage, maybe some bad words, assault, sex mentions, rape mentions, death mentions, angst, war mentions, cry (Idk if it is necessary, but I will put anyway), maybe english errors/mistakes.

important details to mention:

-This is kind of a Royal AU, but time kinda mixes with middle Ages and current time, so some technologies exist and others don't, it's kind of confusing, maybe, but I hope this isn't a big problem.

-The reader is 20 years old, Jason is 22 y/o

-The reader is female.

Pairings: Jason Todd x reader

Y/n = your name

F/n = father name

M/n = mother name

Kd/n = Kingdom name

F/f = Favorite flower

Words count: 5591

Next chapters: Chapter 2, Chapter two’s alternative ending, Chapter 3

Y/N's INFO:

Gender: Cis-Female

Sexuality: Straight

Height: Shorter than Jason

Weight: Not Defined

Skin Color: Not Defined

Hair Color: Not Defined

Eyes Color: Not Defined

Other details? Y/n is myopic

(I hope I have put all the information, let me know if i forgot something)

There I was, wearing a wedding dress while the royal seamstress was doing the last details. The mirror was facing me, where I could see my reflection, and my face was not at all well, my eyes were still red from crying.

This moment should be happy, it should be with my beloved Hunter, but unfortunately he ended up being brutally killed in that war. I begged him to flee, to go to a distant place, but we to stay together, but he said that he swore an oath, and that as a warrior, he would never run away from battle. He said he would come back alive, and that as soon as he came back we would be married, but I knew he would never come back from that war, hardly anyone did, and when the news came that he had been killed, I spent days crying.

That war was destroying our kingdom, it was destroying lives, it was destroying everything. I just wanted it to be over soon, and it seems like my wishes were heard, but not in the way I would like it to be.

The kingdom of Gotham, which had the kingdom of Metropolis as an ally, accepted the agreement to end the war, but that meant that I would have to marry one of the sons of the Gotham's king. They just told me that my future husband was an indomitable warrior, who killed several cruelly, it might not be much information, but I was sure I already hated him.

- The dress is ready princess, if there is something bothering you just let me know.

- It's all right Madeleine, I think there is nothing that is bothering me in the dress.

The seamstress nods in agreement, she opens her mouth to say something, but ends up being quiet, then someone knocks on the door.

- You may come in. - I answer in a monotone voice.

I can see by the reflection of the mirror that it was my mother at the door, and as soon as the old seamstress saw the queen, she immediately left my quarters. I don't say anything, and just look in the mirror as my mom approaches me.

- You are so beautiful.

I don't answer it and just ignore her.

- I know you don't want this daughter, but you know this is for a greater good.

- You promised me you would never force me to marry.

- I know we promised that daughter, but that was the only solution found to stop the war.

- No! that was the option that was best for the kingdom and for you, because the other agreements you and father would lose territory, resources, money and more! Already with an arranged marriage the only one who suffers is me! - I say sharply and angrily, and soon tears come again, I leave her side and go towards the window.

- You aren't the only one who will suffer, do you think that your father and I aren't upset about this too? We know how much you loved Hunter, and we know what we promised. But situations have changed, think for your people, how many lives are you going to save, that's the only way.

- No, it's not! There must be thousands of other possibilities, but this is the easiest! Now get out of my room.

- Daugh-

- I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT OF MY ROOM, NOW! - She was silent and left, I could see there were tears in her eyes, I never fought with my mother, but after that, things changed.

I took off that dress, and put on a more comfortable outfit. I lay on my bed and started to cry again. What's the use of being a princess, having luxuries and everything you can imagine if you can't have your own life? I just… wanted to be free.

I get up from the bed after a while, I wipe away the remaining tears, and went to the window. I loved seeing that landscape so far, after the village, there was a beautiful open field perfect for horseback riding, and further away, there were several mountains where the sun disappeared, and when it set, the landscape was even more beautiful. I even made a picture with that landscape, it wasn't as incredible as the real one, but it was still cool. I get out of my daydreams when I hear a knock on the door.

- Who is it?

- It's Juliet your highness, I came to tell you that dinner is on the table.

- Okay. Tell them I'm not hungry.

- Are you sure, your Highness? You haven't eaten right for days.

- Yes Juliet, I'm sure. - My voice gets angrier, and then the maid leaves my room. I lay on my bed again trying to sleep, but my thoughts wouldn't let me.

Tomorrow we will depart for the kingdom of Gotham, and then the journey will take about three weeks if we have no unforeseen events. The trip would be long, and I was tired of just thinking about it.

I will miss my kingdom.

The next morning, I was awakened by the rays of sunlight that appeared outside. I sigh tiredly and put the pillow in my face, I try to sleep a little more, but there was a little bird that kept singing and it was driving me crazy, so I decide that it would be best to get up soon, since apparently I wouldn't be able to sleep again. I choose some clothes from my wardrobe, and I go to my bathroom to shower, and after that I go towards the kitchen and get some coffee along with a piece of cake, but I refused to sit by the table with my family.

The hours go by being arranged clothes and various other things and placed in the carriages, all day I avoided talking to people, and only spoke when my answer was very necessary. Before I leave, I take a hot shower and put on comfortable clothes, neither screwing up that I would wear tight or extravagant clothes on this exhausting trip.

The trip was long, especially when there was nothing to do, most of the time I was thinking and sometimes listening to music, and sometimes when I got tired I ended up sleeping, the good thing was that the carriage I was in was just me and the driver, so I didn't need to interact with my family. The days passed slowly, but we finally arrived at the famous kingdom of Gotham.

I’ve never been there before, but I must say it was interesting, the kingdom was made up of some islands and the castle was on the mainland, along with some nearby villages, in battle mode it was interesting to note that they had certain advantages on account of the islands.

I sigh as I realize that we were soon arriving at the grand castle of dark stones like the night sky of the Wayne royal family, and wow, that was huge compared to the castle I called home, and a little bit scary to be honest. Through the carriage window I could see the sun going through the clouds, I look at the phone to check the time and it was already 3:37 pm. As soon as the carriage stops I open the door, and oh, the outdoors, I couldn't stand being confined anymore.

I look back and notice that the other carriages were also stopping, I think I must mention that there were many carriages that came so much from my kingdom, as for the allied kingdoms, not to mention that there were other carriages that appeared to be guests from the kingdom of Gotham.

I don't know how long I stood looking at the whole place, but I came back to reality when I noticed that the driver was calling me.

- Is your Highness okay? - He looked concerned as he unhorsed the horses.

- Yes Matt, everything is fine, and please call me y / n. - I give him a half smile, while responding in a gentle way, or at least as much as I could do with my bad mood.

- Okay, y/n.

I realize that my family was near the grand entrance to the castle, waiting for me to join them, and this is what I did, even if against my will. It was not long before soon what I assumed to be King Bruce Wayne appeared to welcome us, and wow, as all of this was not at all fake, two kingdoms that were at war until a few weeks ago act as if they were always friends, that was unbearable and made me sick.

- King f/n, queen m/n! It is a pleasure to have you in our kingdom. - A pleasure? A pleasure to have your enemy here on your land? How I hate politics and this blatant falsehood.

- It is a pleasure to finally talk to you diplomatically King Bruce. - My dad shook his hand, and Bruce hugged my mom and kissed her hand.

I was the one behind, preventing people from seeing me, I am simply taken out of my "comfort" when my father calls me to approach and greet the king.

- So you must be the princess y / n, it is a pleasure to meet you. - He says as he kisses my hand gently, and I could feel my face heat up, both nervousness and shyness, how, urgh, seriously did he have to be so handsome? I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but see that detail, even though I hated him, I had to admit that he was a very handsome king.

I mentally punched myself for having these thoughts, first: you can't fall in love with him, no, not even thinking, that would be absurd, second: AGE AHEM. third: um, I don't, just no, that wasn't right. But what's wrong with finding someone good-looking, isn't it? Was your son that handsome too?

Y / N, REMEMBER EVERYTHING THAT THEY HAVE DONE, THEY BE GOOD-LOOKING DOESN'T CHANGE IT, FOCUS AND RESPONSE THE KING BEFORE SHIT HAPPENS.

- I-It's a pleasure to meet yo-you too. - Damn, why do I have to stutter just now, y / n, get yourself together!

- I'm sure Jason will be very happy to meet you. - Jason? I didn't remember exactly the name of my future husband, in fact I don't remember even if they told me his name, but from the way the king spoke, it is probably him.

- Hope so. - Actually my desire was to answer: Ah, what a pity, I don't have that same pleasure, and I'm almost sure that in fact he won't be happy to meet me. But diplomacy, I didn't want to be the cause of a new war.

King Bruce also shakes my brother's hand, and then invites us to enter his "humble" castle, he didn't say that, but well, never mind. I was impressed, not only was the outside of the castle impressive, but inside, it was just magnificent, they had good taste.

The king gave us a brief tour of the places we passed until we reached our rooms, he said that we would see each other later.

My nerves were on edge, there were so many feelings, nervousness, anxiety, fear, maybe anger too. I was not able to spend much time alone as soon as several different servants came bringing my things, so much so that I would get ready for the wedding, so much my personal belongings that would probably stay there from now on.

After they left I went to the bathroom to take a shower, and then I got dressed, while I was still wearing a towel I just looked at the white dress in front of me, it was beautiful, made with the best fabrics, and made just for me, the way I always dreamed.

I always imagined wearing a dress like that at my wedding with Hunter, and knowing that I was marrying a complete stranger knowing only what people told me about him, which I must say, weren't very good things, they disturbed me even more.

Until now, reality had not reached me as much as that moment, and soon I began to think not only about the wedding that would take place in a few hours, but the one after. It was tradition for the couple to have sex right after the wedding, and it made me even more nervous, not just because I never did it before, but also because I didn't want it to be forced, I wanted… to be passionate, even if it was clumsy, but it was good, and I'm sure that something forced and that neither wants, isn't really a good thing. And I was sure he would probably want me to have sex with him, and it terrified me.

But there was nothing I could avoid, the only thing I could do was to accept it, what if he wasn't so bad? What I heard were rumors, what if they were a lie? I really wanted to believe that, but I knew that maybe I was just lying myself to think about it.

I look at my bags, what if I ran away? I mean, nobody there in that village knew me, so they probably wouldn't recognize me, and that would give me an opening to escape, where to? I don't know, but it sure would be better than here.

I put on some clothes that nobody thought a princess would normally wear, I grab a hooded sweatshirt to try to hide my face, I also go back to the bathroom and turn on the shower, when I leave I close the door, it wouldn't last long until someone realizes , and I'm sorry planet for wasting this water, but it will give me some time.

When I leave the room I look everywhere, I didn't know anything about it, but I was sure I could find a way out. I was careful that no one noticed me, and as I often go unnoticed, it helped me.

It took a while, but I found a way out, and soon I headed towards the village that was there. I didn't have a plan, what would I do now? Maybe that idea was stupid, of course it was, but desperation does things to people, and I was really desperate.

I walked calmly through the crowd of people who were there, it seemed like there was a main street or something. As I walked I heard two women about my age commenting about the wedding.

- Hey, did you know that Prince Jason's wedding is today? - Said a woman with light blond hair to a shorter woman with black hair.

- Yes, it's a pity that he's getting married like that, I'm sure his wife must be awful.

- Clearly. I would certainly be a better wife, he certainly doesn't deserve this marriage.

- Yes, but she is a princess, and we are simple citizens, we would never have a chance.

- Yes, you're right. I wanted to have the chance to stay with him, have you seen those muscles? And those scars just make him hottest.

- Really do you think so?

- Of course. A man with scars is very sexy.

- Well, maybe.

- Ah, whoever she is, even if the prince doesn't deserve her, she is someone lucky. I would give anything to have the same chance.

I couldn't help laughing lightly and rolling my eyes, if she wanted to be with the prince so badly that she switched places with me? I'd be very happy. The two women realized my presence when I laughed and then look at me in bewilderment.

- Why are you laughing? - Asks with blond hair.

- Were you listening to our conversation? - Says the black-haired one.

- I'm sorry, I just heard by chance. - I shrugged

- Sure, tell another one. - The blonde says rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

- How can you like this Prince Jason so much? - I ask curiously meddling in the conversation at both.

- It's none of your bitch business. - The black-haired one says.

- Huh, ok. But I’m pretty sure he’s not that great. Have you heard of the terrible murders he did? - If the two of them were already outraged and angry with me, they managed to get even more.

- Who are you to talk about Prince Jason? You certainly don't know anything about him. - The blonde says sharply, and clearly offended.

- Maybe. But what good could he have?

- What you heard was half true, because what he murdered were enemies and very bad people who deserved death and who threaten our kingdom, what he did was to protect the citizens. - The blonde replies, it looked like she was going to make a huge speech now about her dear Prince Jason.

- Of course. - I say rolling my eyes.

- Even more, Prince Jason is very kind to those who deserve it, is very protective and gives his life to save innocents and his people, he is sweet even if he doesn't seem at first. - The blonde continued to talk about the qualities of the prince that I doubted were real, until the sound of horses is heard not far from there, and his knights, masked and not very friendly people.

I don’t realize when a masked man attacked me from behind, I struggled and tried to scream, but he had covered my mouth, he then pushed me against a wall, grabbing my right arm which was hurting me, and with his other hand still covering my mouth, I was paralyzed for a few seconds, until I managed to react by kicking the weak point of the men, I run as much as I can to the furthest away.

There were a lot of people running and horses around, it was suffocating me, until someone hit me causing me to fall to the ground and a horse almost stepping on me, but he just stepped on my side, but it was still terrifying, I got up staggering, but as soon as I get up I come across a sword which was being wielded by one of those bandits. I swallow hard and raise my hands to try to protect myself, even if it was flawed.

If I stayed there he would probably attack me, but if I tried to run it would be useless, since he was on a horse, I didn't know what to do, and I didn't even know if I could do anything since I was paralyzed with fear.

But before that bandit could do anything I hear someone say: The royal cavalry! And then that guy who was pointing the sword at me had to defend himself against one of the royal knights. I walk backwards trying to get out of there, but guess what, I ended up stumbling on the sidewalk behind me and ended up falling on my ass.

I almost never participated in the fights because I didn't feel well being in these situations, the only times I ended up participating were some rare training sessions and a small invasion that took place in my kingdom many years ago.

My heart was beating so fast it felt like it would leave my body at any moment. I looked in the direction of the knight who had attacked the bandit in front of me, he looked different from the other warriors, while the entire cavalry wore black and white details on their armor, he wore a red that looked like the color of blood.

The bandits retreated and disappeared from the village, and as soon as they were gone I heard the voice of one of the knights announcing:

- Princess y/n, from kd/n kingdom is missing! And it's probably in the village! If you find a young woman who doesn't seem to be from here, let us know!

If my heart was already beating fast for the whole situation that just happened, somehow I was able to beat even faster, and I felt my face getting hot for some reason.

Obviously, sooner or later they would realize that I was gone and would go after me. I was still on the floor, without reaction, and soon I put on my hood to try not to be recognized, I notice that a crowd is forming near where that guy reported about me.

What did I do now? If I ran out, it was more than clear that they would notice me and talk to me, but if I stayed there, someone would soon find me. I didn't realize when that same knight with red accents came up to me, and wow, he was incredibly tall.

- Are you alright lass? - He speaks with his voice being muffled by the helmet, he extends his hand to me, offering his help for me to get up.

- Uhum. - I just hum in response and take your hand and get up. If I spoke he would notice my accent, and my "disguise" would be over.

- Are you sure you're okay? You are shaking. - I didn't even realize until he spoke, it was true, my body was shaking with all that adrenaline, I felt like my legs weren't going to hold my weight for long. I take a deep breath, trying to control myself, and answer a rather low yes, looking away from the crowd that was still forming not far from there. - Wait, princess?

I freeze, and look at him, how did he know? I was sure that no one knew about my appearance, maybe I was wrong about that.

- What? - I ask trying to disguise, but to no avail. - Stay here. - He spoke and then he went to the crowd, towards that other knight, he said something to him and then went to his horse, I knew there was no escape, so I just sighed and waited for that guy to come back.

What was I thinking? It was obvious that my plan couldn't have worked, it was silliness, it was reckless, it was very stupid. And now I wanted to hit my head against the wall for such idiocy.

The red knight turned his horse next to where I was, and then offered his hand so I climbed on the horse, I sighed upset but didn't resist, and soon climbed.

- Better hold on tight. - He said, and I could have sworn that under that helmet he was smiling, just a hunch. I did what he asked, even if a little hesitant at first.

It didn't take long for us to arrive at the castle, and as soon as we stopped at the entrance my parents were waiting for me, and with a not very happy face, of course, there was no way they would be happy after what I did. My dad helps me out of the horse, I almost fell, but it was close.

- What do you think you were doing y/n? - My mother asks angrily to me.

- I wanted to see the village, to get to know a little. - It was a lie, but should I say that I tried to escape? It was stupid, and I wasn't going to admit that I was going to do that.

- You might as well do that after the wedding! - She says even more angry, and clearly not believing my lie.

- Don't you understand?!? I feel suffocated all the time with this whole wedding thing here, and there, I just ... I just wanted to be alone for a while, or at least enjoy my last moments of freedom. - I say as tears of frustration start to fall. This part wasn't exactly a lie, I really just wanted to be alone for a while, just hoped it would last longer than it actually did.

- We were worried y/n! What could have happened? And why didn't you tell us? We would have let you go. - My father says approaching me.

- Of course, being followed by a guard all the time!! What a freedom huh. - I say looking away.

- This is for your protection! You aren't just anybody, you know very well what could have happened. - My mom comes over touching my arm.

- Don't touch me. - I walk away from them.

- There are only a few hours left before the ceremony begins, it is better to get ready. - My father says stiffly and soon he and my mother enter the castle again and I follow behind them, they took me to my room and left me there alone. In the end, all I did was in vain, I decide to take a shower again and get dressed soon.

After I put on the dress, some maids came to make up and do my hair. I was quiet all the time, just holding on to all the bitterness that I was felt. But this time I took the opportunity to think about the reason for this marriage, this was what would stop the war at once, people would be saved, blood will be prevented from being spilled even more than it already was, I had to do this for my people, who was the one who suffered the most from the whole war, even if I didn't want to, it was for a greater good, and I hoped it would really end the differences between our kingdoms.

After they finished doing my hair and putting a beautiful wreath on top of my head, I put on my white flats, I insisted that I keep flats because I found high heels uncomfortable, besides I don't balance myself very well in them. My mother insisted at first that I try, but I refused.

I looked in the mirror one last time, I was really beautiful, and I was happy about it. I soon hear a knock on the door, it was probably now.

- It's time, daughter. - My mother said entering the room, she was wearing one of the dresses that I had designed.

- Okay. - I sigh and go to the door, my mom takes me to where the ceremony would be and my dad was waiting for me at the big door that would soon be opened for me to enter.

- You look stunning daughter. - I wrap my free arm in my father's arm, and of course, in my left hand was a beautiful bouquet of f/f.

- Thank you dad. - I say a little discouraged.

- Come on, I'm sure your future husband isn't as bad as you think he is.

- Pff. - I say cynically, obviously not agreeing with my father's speech.

- Give him a chance. - He looked at me, begging me to at least try to make it work.

- Maybe. - I answer looking at the giant wooden door in front of me. I see out of the corner of his eye that he smiled at me.

The sound of the orchestra begins, and soon at the doors open, the bridesmaids with the boy who I supposed took the rings, entered in front of us, the boy passing by following the big red carpet to the altar where the priest and the bridegroom was, and the bridesmaids were soon after throwing flower petals.

I swallow hard, now it was my turn.

Everything there was so beautiful, everything adorned with the things I always dreamed of, thousands of people lifted from their seats in fancy clothes, looking at me as I passed the corridor, chandeliers that illuminate the whole place, and there at the end of the big rug was he on the altar, the man I didn't even know and who would be my husband, when I approached the altar my father kissed my cheek and soon went to join the other guests.

My heart was beating very fast, and I could feel my whole body shaking, my fiance took my hands and he must have noticed that they were shaking, he smiled at me to try to reassure me, I try to smile too, but I hope I have been a smile and not a grimace.

While the priest spoke a lot of things I was able to analyze the appearance of the man in front of me, he was much taller than me, he had a very muscular body and had some visible scars on his face, he had black hair that you could tell they were kind of curly, and his eyes, when I had the courage to look into his eyes, they were so pretty, a bluish green, that I even felt hypnotized, he must have realized I was analyzing him and smiled confident, my face soon starts to heat up and I look away from him.

I had to admit, he was really handsome. If what that woman had said about him was all true, maybe it wasn't so bad... was it? I expected it, but there was no way I could be sure now, and who knows when I would find out. Some more time passes and finally the time comes for the vows, where I started to get even more nervous, if that was possible.

- Jason and y/n, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage? - When priest said, I wanted to answer, obviously it was not my will, this is an arranged marriage!

- Yes. - Jason and I answered at the same time and soon the priest continued.

- Will you honor each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?

- I will. - Sometimes I stutter to answer, and try to look away.

- Will you accept children lovingly from God, and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church.

- Yes, we will.

The priest looked at Jason so he could speak his vows.

- I, Jason, take you, y/n, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life. - He seems to have trained a lot, because at no point in his speeches did he stutter or appear to be uncertain about that.

I take a deep breath, remembering the words I had to say, please don't stutter now y/n. I hesitated for a moment, I looked at my mom and dad quickly, and then I looked at Jason.

- I, y/n, take you, Jason, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.

- To show the commitment of both, to alliances. Alliances are physical symbols of a couple's commitment and their emotional and spiritual connection. They are considered a perfect circle, with no beginning or end. - The boy with a red pillow gives the rings to the priest, who before giving the rings, speaks.

- y/n and Jason, may these rings be a visible reminder of your feelings for each other right now. - Only if it is out of hatred for each other, because love I am sure it is not. - As you look at them, remember that you have someone special to share your life with. Remember that you have found each other and each in other, and that you will never walk alone again.

I could not prevent a tear from falling out of the corner of my eye, and every time I remember me "it is for the good of the people".

- y / n, I give you this ring as a sign that I chose you to be my wife and my best friend. Receive it and know that I love you. - I looked at my left hand while he put on the golden ring, it hurt to know that those words were false.

I took the other ring, and did the same with Jason.

- Jason, I give you this ring as a sign that I chose you to be my husband and my best friend. Receive it and know that I love you. - I stammered in parts, but that's okay. I looked at him awkwardly.

- Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. - The priest did a little pause and then continues. - y / n and Jason, no one but yourselves has the power to proclaim you husband and wife. However, you chose us as advertisers for this good news. And so, having witnessed your exchange of vows before everyone who is here today, it is with great joy that we declare that you are married. And to seal that moment, you can kiss.

Jason puts one hand awkwardly at the beginning around my waist, and the other holds my face, my hands wrap around his neck and so we kissed. It wasn't exactly a kiss, and there was certainly no passion, just nervousness and something awkward.

When we kissed I could hear the sound of the guests clapping. When we finished the kiss we smiled awkwardly at each other, Jason offers his arm for me to hold, and that's what I did, the bridesmaids went ahead of us, throwing more petals, while we both went out into the great hall.

Now it was official. I was married.

A/n - Phew, I finally finished. It took a long time, in fact, I was so entertained writing that I spent 5 hours writing non-stop, consequently I had a huge headache, but it was worth it, because I loved writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

This was very hard, especially the translation part, since it has more than 5000 words, so it is very likely that it have English errors, and if you have found some, please let me know!

I would even divide this chapter into two or three parts, but I decided to leave it all together. So I hope you enjoy a long chapter.

I plan to start the next chapter soon, as I’m really inspired to write this, so it’s better not to lose the inspiration to write while it is here, isn’t it?

See ya!

Until the next cap!

- Ina -

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rpbetter · 4 years ago

Text

Traditional Writing Advice & RP

I see a lot of people reblogging writing advice posts, and while it pleases me to see people trying to appreciate RP as writing, those pieces of advice don’t always translate from traditional writing to RP writing.

Following the advice for writing a traditional book manuscript you want to have published, you are going to run into some issues if you follow every point of it faithfully in an RP setting.

For one thing, this isn’t just your story, you’re telling it with another writer. In RP, our reading audience and our writing partners are the same. We have to create well-written, engaging stories that are also meant to be picked up by someone else and furthered. For another, even among the most writing proficient RPers, this is a more relaxed style of writing for a reason; we’re writing neither a paper to be graded nor a work to be published, we’re expressing creativity with other people. It can fall flat quickly, to your writing partners and to yourself, if you are writing in an extremely formal manner in RP.

Writing is one of the creative pursuits that has lent itself heavily to what I’m going to politely call snobbery, and that is part of the problem here. The RPC is rather filled with muns who are self-concious, devalue themselves and their work, and can be desperate for the approval of being A Real Writer. If you love writing and you do write, you’re a writer. No, that definitely doesn’t make you a good writer, but following rules not meant for you isn’t going to make you one either.

There is a wrong way to write, actually, there are hundreds of wrong ways to write that make me want to rip my own face off on the regular. The thing is, there is no one-size-fits-all correct way to write any more than there is such a standard in visual art. There are principles that one should know and follow, but your style might be neoclassical or modern or impressionist. Saying that, in my personal opinion, things falling under the heading of modern-style art is horrid, thus inherently wrong and not art, I’d be imposing my personal aesthetics instead of encouraging people to follow appropriate principles, run with their passion and skill, and make art that moves people who are not me. That’s important, in general, but it’s even more important when we’re talking about creative art as a hobby-as a legitimate passion project one isn’t obliged to devote themselves to.

That’s the way we need to be looking at writing as well. Not as an academic and absolute Right Way, but as an art form that has principles, and indeed, literal form. By insisting otherwise, we’ve damaged writing as a hobby and a profession, and it really shows in the RPC where you have a rather stark division of muns who, on the one side, are so ate up with bizarre concepts their professor threw out about never using “said,” forcing the ideology of their personal academic experience on others, and using traditional writing advice as Word of God to shame others and elevate themselves. On the other side, you have a ton of muns who just won’t even bother anymore, and why should they? They’re genuinely not up to par, but working on it means both a process of shaming and killing their own creative experience.

In saying all this, I want to be really clear here: I am in no way saying that shitty writing, an inability to follow basic grammatical principles, being unwilling to use the damn spellcheck that is standard everywhere, and having no concept of things like storytelling, characterization, and word flow is excusable or ideal.

It isn’t. It’s a terribly destructive force in the RPC, and I’m not in the camp of excusing disinterest in learning, improving, and perfecting one’s hobby because it is an unpaid hobby. In my opinion, it’s part of the blight of the current RPC. However, the snobbery and inability to recognize that there is nuance to learning and writing situations has done nothing but worsen this issue.

So, that being said, some items that are 100% good to use traditionally and in RP include:

Grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

We’re not all native English speakers, and grammar is difficult anyway. It can also turn a story bland with expedience when too properly adhered to. Know the basic principles, but also, be asking yourself about both popular works of fiction and your own favorite works. Chances are, they do not strictly adhere to the rules. Experienced, naturally gifted, and learned writers all manipulate those rules to work for their stories, characters, world-building, and so on. It becomes a personalized writing style, and it’s alright if it takes you some practice to find yours.

Just remember, grammar exists for a reason. Removing or mutating too much will leave you with a difficult to read and understand mess that isn’t a style, just a fucking mess.

If you struggle with grammar, the best way to help yourself is to practice. Additionally, seeing what errors you are making can be quite helpful; Grammarly offers a free add on for both Google Chrome and FireFox that will show you spelling and grammar mistakes. It also explains the mistake, while offering you a suggested fix. This way, you can see the mistakes you’re making in action. {Presumably, there are other such resources, but since I have no experience with them, I’m not the one to recommend them.}

As I said above, spellcheckers are standard now, in fucking 2021. This has been standard on devices and browsers for so long that I highly doubt most people on tumblr even remember a time when you had to use additional software to have them.

You make a mistake or misspell, and if it isn’t corrected for you, it’s underlined very obviously for you to tap/click/float over to correct. If the word is so terribly misspelled that no suggestion comes up {not all spellcheckers are created equality; some do not recognize slang or relaxed spellings, archaic word use, myriad, particularly specialized jargon-legal, medical, technical-and so on}, we also live in a time period where we can highlight the word, right-click that bitch, and select from the menu the option to search for the word. If the word was so weirdly misspelled that your checker couldn’t figure it out, it is incredibly rare that Google doesn’t throw out the correct spelling when you search it. If the spelling was correct, but the word-use is slang, jargon, or archaic, Google is also going to tell you that-you’ve confirmed it is correct, and can now decide if you want to use it or pick a possible synonym for it instead.

There is no fucking excuse for egregiously misspelled words anymore. None. I mean...listen, I spell quite terribly myself, but no one reading my RP replies is ever going to know that fact. Having difficulty with spelling is not, and has not been for a very long time now, an impediment to writing.

Furthermore, we all miss a typo here and there, especially if we write lengthy novella. Those aren’t always going to be caught by spellcheck, and we might edit the reply five times without seeing it. That happens, it’s alright when it’s minimal! Anything other than that, though, it’s just a combination of rushing and laziness. You really couldn’t be assed to take your time with that reply, read it over at least once before posting, and/or to click the underlined word.

There. Is. No. Excuse.

Again, not all spellcheckers are the same. If you feel like yours is lacking, try an extension for your browser. Since I said it above, I obviously have Grammarly on my mine. My replies effectively go through three different checkers, actually. I write all drafts outside of my browser where it is initially checked by Pages, then, when I paste it into tumblr, it’s being checked natively and by Grammarly. It wasn’t my intention, I just wanted to be positive I was never losing a draft or cooking my ancient laptop with Google Docs. However, it’s been nice as hell to get the perspective of multiple checkers, and as such, I definitely recommend it. It isn’t like I’m putting any extra effort into this, and I’m not paying for Grammarly, either.

When you refuse to behoove yourselves of the spellchecker natively available to you, at least, you’re seriously telling your writing partners that they were not important enough for you to click a fucking word. It’s inexcusable.

Punctuation being nonexistent isn’t a writing style or aesthetic, neither is a refusal to capitalize anything. If never using a comma is part of your Aesthetic™, please, rethink your fucking life and the hobby you’ve chosen.

Punctuation is a part of grammar, and I understand that there can be complexities present that might be confusing. That is one of the reasons why you should bother to know the basics as regards when and how to use punctuation. It’s also another way in which telling people that they should adhere to advice meant for traditional and academic writing can be a shit idea. Especially in an RPC known to misunderstand shit and go overboard.

When you tell the RPC that writers use too many commas, the RPC stops using them all around. Especially, when you also attach this to the idea of evil “wordiness.” That’s something that the RPC is desperate to avoid anyway, as the majority of people here are allergic to reading and writing; anything you advise that lessens the word count for them is going to be grabbed and erroneously applied. Someone implies that wordiness and commas equals run-on sentences, and the RPC gets not only believes it, it gets this message, “if I take out the commas, it isn’t a run-on sentence.”

You have all fundamentally misunderstood what a god damned run-on sentence is. It’s not a long sentence, it isn’t a proliferation of commas. A run-on sentence is when two, or more, sentences that should be individual are conjoined without proper punctuation {a fucking comma, for example} or a coordinating conjunction.

Run-ons can be surprisingly short, in fact. As in the example I lifted from here, “I love to write papers I would write one every day if I had the time.“

That should be written with a comma, separated into two sentences, or broken with a comma and the conjunction “and.” It’s also what I see incessantly on my dash from this bizarre idea that we shouldn’t be using commas. That a run-on sentence is a very long one separated only by commas. That is literally not what a run-on sentence is.

You absolutely can use too many commas {if you want to read some examples of how to use commas, go here}, but I rarely see anyone doing so to such an extreme. The extreme being that a sentence becomes a nonsensical string of conjoined thoughts, ideas, and descriptions that could have been written better broken up into fully formed sentences. I sometimes see muns who go a little nuts with commas by putting them in wildly incorrect places in this way.

What I see constantly is either muns berating themselves for perfectly normal, readable sentence structure or muns reactively using no punctuation at all.

It is all legitimate run-on sentences or those made so short and blunt that they become nonsensical, change the tone of the writing, or have no flow together.

Which brings me to...

Sentence flow is a thing, and you should be doing it.

Unfortunately, this good writing advice tends to throw people. We’re not talking about the flow that needs to be present in academic sentence structure, or exactly the flow that is present in poetry. Though it may require practice to understand and apply well, it’s an incredibly simple concept.

You want to balance out shorter, blunter sentences with those that are longer and more flowing. It gives the text a pleasant, natural rhythm. However, it isn’t just about length, a thing that the RPC is weirdly fixated on. Rather, it’s about word use within those sentences as well.

It’s always important to write with a tone that works with your scene and, overall, with your muse. For example, in a tense, aggressive scene, or with a muse who is generally this way, it gets the message across to use short sentences and clipped words. We can feel the tension, annoyance, and threat.

Furthermore, the way your muse thinks about and uses words is relevant. A well-educated muse from the 1800′s isn’t going to have the same approach to words that a modern-day high school student does. You should be making that clear in the way they speak, but also, in the way you express their thoughts and actions. If you are only writing your muse’s personality and emotional tone when your muse is speaking, you’re not giving me the tone all the way through. It can feel like a marked delineation in flow.

However, you should be considering the overall flow of your writing as well. Did you just lay down back-to-back eloquently verbose sentences? If so, you may want to either follow them up or space them with a shorter sentence comprised of simpler words.

This is legitimately good writing advice for any manner of writing.

So is...

Show, don’t tell.

Which is another piece of advice that throws people when they try to make it more complex than necessary. That, and it grates up against the RPC’s need for short, quick writing. The idea that anything a mun gives you that your muse cannot react to verbally or with action is filler to be avoided. That idea comes from some principle advice that translates badly to RP; essentially, don’t wax poetic for three pages when it has nothing to do with the plot, characters, scene-setting elements, action, and so on. Don’t be Tolkien describing every tree and rock in excruciating detail on the way to destroy the One Ring, basically.

That isn’t fully appropriate advice in RP, where we’re having to write tiny chapters to each other to add onto. While it still has some merit, the RPC definitely has taken it to mean that you shouldn’t show anything. My muse’s private thoughts, emotions expressed and unexpressed, stirred-up memories, things they planned to say/do, but that were naturally interrupted by the flow of the thread all become Unnecessary. With...no mind to what they are showing and creating.

This particularly erodes writing muses as legitimate feeling people. As in the last example of what my muse intended to say or do that was interrupted. That’s a normal, human experience. It would be difficult and not enjoyable to read every instance of a muse’s broken thoughts and impulses or intentions, but giving one every so many replies in a natural feeling way keeps my muse presenting as a real person having a real person’s experience. Simple things like this go a long way toward your muse being “believable,” and by ignoring them or refusing to do them, you’re not making your muse very realistic. So much of the human experience is private, unknowable to outside parties.

Look...if you only knew me based upon a sterilized version of what I was saying to you or doing purely within the context of single interaction at a time, you wouldn’t know me at all. You’d have no idea what sort of nuance there is in my words, how I am expressing or withholding an opinion or emotion. I may not have any opinions, emotions, or other experiences that you are not contributing to. That’s very unrealistic, I’m not actually a person anymore. I haven’t any personality, I didn’t exist before you interacted with me.

That is the way it is with muses too. By stripping them of their internal experiences, we’re stripping them of more realistic feeling characterization. {It becomes, or adds to, a disastrous domino-effect of projected, cardboard stand-in style muses that are in no way a joy to interact with.} This is bad writing, makes for bad reading and interacting.

No one seems to understand show, don’t tell. Let me put it in a simple example: don’t tell me your muse is a good person, show me. Don’t tell me your muse is upset right now, show me.

Your muse has character traits you feel makes them A Good Person. They are compassionate, selfless, and genuinely interested in others. Don’t just leave that in the muse’s bio, or relegate it to statement-style lines like, “she cared deeply about others.” Show me these traits in action and thought. You don’t require anything dramatic to it, either. A muse like this should be a good listener, proceed with their love language in a way reflects personal involvement and a desire to comfort, be willing to sacrifice time and personal interests {don’t keep it to dramatic and literal self-sacrifice to show “selfless”}, legitimately doesn’t think of themselves first and foremost and may need reminding to care for themselves, and will be troubled by unfairness and cruelty in the world.

Your muse has been in a disagreement with a loved one, they’re not just “upset,” they are sad, angry, disappointed, and maybe even confused or surprised. While those are more descriptive and defining of the type of complex “upset” going on here, don’t leave it at these words. Don’t tell me that she said, angrily. Show me that she is having thoughts based on these emotions, actual emotional turmoil at her expectations of a loved one being devastated. Paint me a picture of the sadness in her features, the anger in her walk, how her words come out unpolished and jumbled in her surprise and turmoil.

This is what it means to show me, not tell me.

It also extends to scenes and recollections.

If your muse is happy sitting in her garden, don’t just tell me this. Show me why she is happy there, and define the sort of happiness in her thoughts, body language, voice, and expressions. Describe the aspects of the garden in tones of the happiness they bring, draw comparisons between this and her outward expression of joy with similar word use. It ties together both seamlessly in a way that we can relate to and feel, even if we hate the outdoors.

If this muse had a traumatic incident in her past, this is going to inconveniently come up, even if only in her mind. Don’t play coy about it and drop shit on your partners like, “she was thinking of things and stuff that was bad again.” No. Even if you are alluding or otherwise keeping the actual event secretive, you need to be describing how the muse is feeling, how she is experiencing the world around her through an overlay of upsetting reminders. Show me how she is having a visceral reaction to triggering stimuli while having to keep working or talking.

Additionally, even when your muse isn’t experiencing the scene you have set directly, you should show me instead of telling me about it.

Since my actual least favorite PSA on how it’s better to just tell people because no one wants to read “all that” deals with rain, we’re going to as well. Because it doesn’t have to be excessively descriptive to fucking show me it’s raining or has rained instead of just stating the fact.

Not, “it was raining.” Not, “it was wet outside.”

“In between her words, the distant, wall-dampened splash of cars driving through puddles.”

“He passed by windows beaded with moisture on his way to the kitchen.”

Wow, that was so complex, really a lot to read to get the idea that it is, or has been, raining outside without me directly telling you this!

There isn’t anything wrong with being more descriptive than this {nor is there anything wrong with using the word “rain,” so long as you’re backing it up with a description}, some of us do like to read and write about things like oil-slicked puddles in the street if our muse is seeing them or it is otherwise relevant. It’s just that you don’t have to do this, or have to do it at all times, to show instead of tell. This is yet another serious misunderstanding.

It isn’t that the description is often really that excessive, it’s more often that it is irrelevant to the extreme of sticking out weirdly. In the puddle thing, if my muse isn’t seeing it and/or I am not using that description to further experience, their mindset, personality, or tying it to an analogy later in the reply, it feels weird.

Some superfluous shit isn’t bad either, and superfluous can be purely subjective. It is, again, when it is to such an extreme as to leave your writing partner feeling oddly about a point in the text that seemed to ring with importance, but then held none. That isn’t an act of showing or telling, and neither is it your partner trying to show off as a gifted writer. For whatever reason, they just saw or felt that moment with such passionate clarity they had to include it immediately instead of waiting until a better moment for it. That’s literally it, there’s no need to project your insecurity in weird ass ways.

There are definitely other pieces of traditional-based writing advice that are great and either do transfer to RP perfectly or can with small amendments, but these are the most basic, commonly seen, and important combinations. They are also easy to better understand and apply!

When reading writing advice posts, please, ask yourself how they fit into RP. If they do at all. Many times, when it comes to the absolute basics of writing coherently and enjoyably, or developing characters, they’re great. It’s when they get into topics of some nuance that they don’t cross over so well and are outright damaging.

These pieces of advice are often being misunderstood or misapplied already, then are being passed around to a community notorious for its lacking application of critical thinking. Severe misunderstanding will happen, and terrible writing “rules” within the RPC develop from them.

Do be interested in writing, don’t separate traditional writing and RP writing into categories like “real writing and RP,” be invested in learning and improving. Just ask yourself how it applies to cooperative storytelling that is often thematic in nature, and proceed with caution and the mindset that writing is an art.

If you have the principles down and both yourself and others are enjoying your writing, you’re not doing it in an inherently wrong way because it wouldn’t be published. You’re not writing RP to have it published, and that’s not a bad thing. It’s just a difference to keep in mind when reading PSA’s about the Rules of Writing Whatever.

#tumblr rp #rp help #rp advice #rph #tumblr rpc #rpbetter #rpb #roleplay better #tumblr rp advice #traditional writing advice and rp #queue

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marvel-and-dc-geek · 4 years ago

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Here’s the story I wrote for college ! I couldn’t give it an exact translation, but please try to enjoy it. Just in case, it focused on American imperialism and ecological stuff @a-nonnie-mousse

America, a white, blonde and tall young man, was a very enviable country: he was strong, big...the biggest progress symbol. Every single country knew his name, who he was. On the other hand, she was the complete opposite: Costa Rica, a short and brunette girl, who often got confused with her sisters, if anyone bothered to remember she existed. She wasn’t a synonym for progress, she was a synonym for ecology.

Right? That was it. That made her special, or at least the other countries said that. Even America seemed interested by it. (Canada has as well, but he was now angry at her, after se refused to let him take gold from Crucitas.)

Ecology was a synonym for nature, which at the same time, was a synonym for money, if you knew how to use it.

America was her friend. A good friend who told her how to move forward. And she wanted to be a good friend, because it wasn’t good to be in bad terms with him. If he didn’t like one of her presidents, he could be very cruel. Some of her siblings had that luck, and it wasn’t an experience she wanted to go through.

Anyways, America asked her for simple stuff in exchange for some of his money, and he send her business that gave her people jobs. Call centers, pineapple plantations, banana plantations (those hadn’t worked in the past, but hey, they got her a train line!). Lots of tourists from his country game to visit her, and she had ended up taking some of their customs, which she found very nice.

And that was normal for her. Her dad, Spain, had done the same: for years, she had to work for him, using her land’s resources. She lost many people who didn’t want to adapt to his way of life, but she couldn’t complain, his way was better. After all, her dad came from a civilized place. That’s what he always said, when he bothered to remember her existence.

So it wasn’t weird that America was like that, and she didn’t have any other option but to accept it, even when she asked herself if it was really okay.

“You can’t stop Progress because of a few trees”

“They want to keep living in the Stone Edge, it ain’t your fault for wanting to move forward”

She recalled all the times he has told her that, and could avoid but to wonder how truth was it. She wanted to take care of her people. She wanted them to be happy and live well.But they needed jobs for that, jobs that her friend helped created. Those jobs, however, sometimes did more bad than good:

Pineapple plantations used poisons that made her people sick and destroyed her nature. They cared more about how fast they could harvest crops, than looking for ways to protect their workers and the land.

Call centers didn’t have any consideration on the amount of job they asked their employees to do, and they paid them quite little. Those who worked there barely spent time with their family.

Most hotels had her friend’s people as owner, and they often destroyed the nature people came to see.

There were times where she felt like she got none of the movie they made, but he did...

But, what was she supposed to do? Even when she asked her government of that was okay, Costa Rica always received the same answer: “leave them alone, they give us jobs !We would lose a lot of money with an even more eco friendly economy”

It was as if the only thing that mattered was what people from other countries wanted...nah, those where just her thoughts. After all, capitalism was and could be sustainable!

Agriculture had always been one of her main activities, but she had to learn how to rush things if she wanted to sell her products to her friend and the European countries. Ever since her independence, they had been partners: Costa Rica would sell her products, mainly to England, and they paid her good money for it, specially for coffee.

Now they liked pineapple. They kept give money to her, a poor small country. Having to compete with others forced her to take measures she didn’t want to take, but they were necessary.

In order to speak to them, she had learned English. That’s what her friend had told her, tho he didn’t know how to speak Spanish. Speaking English showed she was smart, and so did speaking French or Portuguese. She hadn’t learn any language of her own people, like bribri, malecu or bocota. Those languages wouldn’t help her.

Some people tried to resist. That was normal, said her friend. In many countries, people had done the same, but it was important to avoid backing down. Avoid backing down to people who didn’t want their home to be damaged. She had lost money when she didn’t allow Canada to make his mine, and some people still got angry at her for that. She didn’t have to back down against some poor souls who just worried about their homes and not progress.

The economy bloomed, and it required more materials. More energy. More space. More time. More everything. Nature and society had to go side by side, or else nature wasn’t worth it. It didn’t matter how much pain that caused her . It didn’t matter that she felt part of her was changing, but not for good. She was used to it anyways

Would things always be like that? She didn’t know another way. At least she now had a friend with her, and that friend was America.

#personal #not really Hetalia #very OOC just in case #OC I guess ?#writing

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pengychan · 5 years ago

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[Good Omens] Winging It - John 15:15

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: A good chunk of what happened in this chapter was not planned. I am really bad at planning.

***

“All right, let’s see - three options, no?”

“Yes. Owen Brown, Lawrence Brown, and Rusty Brown. According to the information--”

“It’s Rusty,” Crowley spoke up, causing both Gabriel and Aziraphale to fall quiet and turn to look at him. Gabriel was utterly confused; Azirapale just raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain that knowledge. The demon shrugged.

“I refuse to believe any parent whose surname is Brown would willingly choose to pick Rusty as their child’s name, unless there was a demonic intervention. It’s a bully magnet. Must have picked it himself when older. The man’s got a sense of humor.”

A chuckle. “We raised a child whose mother named him Warlock,” Aziraphale reminded him, causing Gabriel to blink.

“You did-- what?” he asked. To his knowledge there were a lot of things an angel and a demon were not supposed to do together - they were supposed to do nothing together, really, except trying to thwart each other at every turn - and Gabriel suspected that ‘raising a child’ came rather close to the top of that list. Maybe slightly below ‘stopping the Apocalypse’.

Crowley ignored him, rolling his eyes. “You know the Satanic nuns of the Chattering Order of St Beryl must have had something to do with it.” “The who and the what now?” Gabriel tried again. This time, it was Aziraphale to ignore him.

“That is… fair. But we cannot rule out the possibility his parents did pick the name, and that therefore he is not our man. May I remind you we once knew a lady called Farting Clack?”

Crowley chuckled. “Ah, Victorians. That was a fun time. Except when we argued because you wouldn’t give me holy water.”

“I did eventually, give it a rest.”

“You did what!” Gabriel exclaimed, outraged. Only to be, again, ignored.

“Took you a good while, is what I’m saying.”

“Well, excuse me for worrying you might accidentally--” Aziraphale trailed off like something had struck him, and Crowley flinched. They both turned to Gabriel at the exact same time; Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, Crowley’s were hidden behind glasses.

And Gabriel was very, very confused.

“... What?” he asked. The demon’s expression stayed unreadable, but Aziraphale’s anxious one melted in a smile. A very nervous smile. What in the--

“So, three options,” Aziraphale exclaimed, clapping his hands together with exaggerated glee. “Best to start looking into them, no?”

“Er… yes, I suppose. I do need to figure out where they live, at least. Then I suppose I can go by exclusion, visiting each of them.”

Crowley nodded. “Well, good thing we have an expert in tracking people down right here,” he said, and turned to Aziraphale. Gabriel followed suit, only for Aziraphale to blink at both of them like a particularly confused owl.

It… didn’t give Gabriel much confidence over his supposed expertise in tracking down people.

“I am-- no expert in tracking down people.”

Crowley’s turn to look confused. “You tracked down the Antichrist.”

“I had a book full of prophecies to give me pointers. I suspect that counts as cheating.”

“Or as an intelligent use of available resources,” Gabriel suggested. Aziraphale chuckled.

“That does sound better.”

“Ah. Right. We sure could use something like that now,” the demon muttered, and pulled out a phone from the… frankly ridiculously tiny pockets of his trousers, where no phone would fit unless there was a literal miracle at play. “... But at least we have the names and birthday, so there’s that. All right, first one, Owen Brown…”

***

“You’re shitting me.”

“Mr. Brown, I can assure you angels do not do that, either.” Uriel’s voice was calm, but her hands did grip the clipboard a little harder. She had hardly ever visited the lower spheres of Heaven where mortal souls resided before that ordeal, and now she was beginning to see why. “Please, do try to control your language.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Daniel Brown waved his hand, leaning back on his seat. “Not in front of a lady. Got it.”

“... I am an angel, Mr. Brown,” Uriel pointed out flatly just as the man’s wife, sitting by him, raised an eyebrow.

“Since when do you try not to curse in front of ladies? Because I can’t recall you holding back much in the twenty-something years we have been married.”

“You’re not a lady, you’re the wife. You knew the cussing was part of the package by the time we got to the altar, shouldn’t have married down,” Daniel Brown pointed out, and smiled. “Still not a clue why you gave me a chance when we met.”

She smiled back. “One too many drinks.”

“Ah, a drunken mistake, then.”

“The second best mistake of my life.”

“... Wait, what’s the first--”

Uriel held back a sigh. “Yes. Well. Regardless, what I have told you is true. You do have a brother as opposed to a sister as you believed.”

Daniel Brown rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I repeat, there is no need to involve him,” Uriel droned. Mortals were a lot more difficult to deal with than she remembered, but then again last time she had directly dealt with any had been a few millennia earlier, when the trend was showing up with several pairs of wings, a few heads, wheels of fire and a handful of eyes here and there. They would occasionally die of fright but for the most part, once the screaming had ceased, they were cowed enough to politely listen.

And never did accuse them of, quote, shitting them.

“Right, I-- sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I just-- it’s a lot. First I die, it’s kind of, I mean, new. Then I met my wife again - wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but I thought I had lost her for-- well, it is a lot.” He cleared his throat again; Liv Brown reached to take his hand and squeezed it. He held it back. “Then, turns out the slightly weird but not-bad-at-all guy who helped me land a job and befriended me was the literal Archangel fuck-- the Archangel Gabriel in exile. And now you’re telling me that Alison is not… Alison anymore, and that I wasted over a decade searching for her-- him-- on wrong information.”

Well. Perhaps it was, indeed, a lot to deal with for any human mind. Uriel made an effort to smile. “Gabriel is currently working on locating him so he can give him news of your passing. If there is anything more specific you wish him to know, within reason--”

“Within reason?”

“Except letting him know you’re sending this message from beyond death. That, I am afraid, is forbidden by current guidelines.” Uriel took a blank piece of paper she had on her clipboard and placed it on the table, along with a pen. “It will be given to Gabriel, and he’ll relay your message once your brother is found. It’s what he does best, after all.”

“... Heh. From announcing the birth of Christ to telling my brother I’m sorry I was a dick. Bit of a downgrade, but life is shi-- crap, anyway.” Daniel Brown chuckled and took the pen, but didn’t start writing yet. He looked at her questioningly. “… Why was he cast out? What happened?”

He’d asked before, and Uriel had told him it was none of his business, if not precisely using those exact words. When that had happened, her memories of Gabriel were few and in-between, and she was no longer sure the events had been precisely as they’d remembered and recorded for future reference.

Now that those memories were back - only of Gabriel, none of them had dared bring up the possibility of trying to remember other angels who were no more - she could tell him the details, if so she wished.

She did not, in fact, wish to. But it was not for her to decide.

“... I will ask Gabriel whether he wishes us to share that information with you,” she finally said. Daniel Brown seemed to realize it was the most he could hope for and he just nodded before he looked down, swallowed, put the pen to the paper, and began writing.

***

“He’s writing back!”

“Is he?”

“Yes. That’s what the dots mean. He’s typing.”

“This was… surprisingly easy.”

“Oh, I know. Whatever demon worked on Zuckerberg got a promotion, I heard. Got to admit, that Cambridge Analytica affair was a stroke of genius.”

“Ah, so that was Hell’s doing.”

“I’m amazed you doubted that for even a moment.”

Gabriel supposed he might have guessed what Aziraphale and his demon were talking about if he focused, but he did not: all he could do was stare at the screen of Crowley’s phone, at those dots as the man at the other end - Rusty Brown, a man with rather debatable taste in t-shirts who, according to his profile, had indeed been born in Plymouth seventy years earlier but did not resemble Daniel in the slightest - wrote his response.

Maybe it is him, he thought. It would be a stroke of luck for Daniel’s brother to turn out to be the only man they’d been able to find and approach through social media; an easy way to deliver a message if there ever was one. That would be good. Too good, given Gabriel’s recent luck.

And, within moments, a message came to confirm as much.

“I’m afraid you got the wrong man, I have two sisters and no brothers,” Rusty Brown had written. “Sorry - best of luck with your search.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Ah, I supposed that would have been too easy.”

“No such thing as something too easy. I like it when things are easy.” Crowley frowned at his phone. “And here I thought he was the most likely candidate. Let me see…” he mumbled, and began typing. Gabriel craned his neck to see the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if his sisters are among his friends.”

“... Why?”

“If their parents went and named him Rusty, I’m curious to see-- ah, Scarlet and Sandy Brown. Not sure I want to imagine what grade school was like for them,” he muttered, and blocked the screen. “Well. One’s out, two left.”

“And we did find one Owen Brown on the electoral register whose age fits,” Aziraphale added glancing at Gabriel. “If only we could figure out the place of birth, we’d know if he’s the Owen Brown on our list. But it’d be quicker to go speak to him, he lives in Luton. No phone number - probably no landline.”

Gabriel, who had only a very vague idea of where Luton was, nodded. “I’ll go find him, then. I took the rest of the week off specifically for this,” he added. What he was doing for Daniel was of paramount importance, of course, but he was also needed at work and disappearing with no warning would have been extremely unprofessional.

Aziraphale waved a hand. “It won’t take long. Crowley and I can take you--”

“Absolutely not," Crowley declared, cutting him off. Aziraphale turned to glance at him. Crowley crossed his arms and tilted up his chin, clearly ready to stand by what he’d said.

A sigh. “Crowley, it wouldn’t take more than--”

"We're not going with him. We'll put him on the first train, give him a map, and good luck to him."

"Now, dear. Luton is not that far, it would take less than a hour with the Bentley and you wouldn't even need to take the M25--"

"It’s not the M25 that’s the problem,” Crowley replied. “After driving down it while on fire, I don’t think it’s going to ever feel like a problem on a normal day again. Luton is the problem.”

"... Something in particular about it that I don't know about?"

"Last time I was there, I got stabbed."

"Oh. That does sound bothersome,” Aziraphale conceded. “What did you do to--"

"I walked in a pub."

“And then?”

“Nothing. I walked in a pub and got stabbed by someone who decided he didn’t like the way I was looking at him.”

“Were you not wearing sunglasses?”

“Of course I was.”

“Then how would he know--”

“He didn’t. He just was in a stabby mood.”

“Charming,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Luton,” Crowley huffed.

“Well, it was probably quite a while ago--”

“The Nineties were not that long ago.”

“I… can go on my own,” Gabriel dared intervene, trying not to sound overly worried by what he was hearing. “I’ve taken trains to come here, after all. It wasn’t difficult.”

Aziraphale seemed a little concerned regardless, but in the end he relented, and Crowley did drive him to the station the next morning, to catch a train for Luton. With that, the address and money for a cab, Gabriel was rather sure he was at no risk of getting lost.

And he’d make sure not to step in any pub, just in case.

***

“... Not the bloke you’re looking for, no. Sorry, mate.”

“Ah-- well, I suppose it was worth a try. I’ll be on my way. My apologies for the intrusion.”

“No, wait - I was about to go have a pint with some mates, come with us. It’s on me.”

“Really, I cannot accept--”

“You can, young man. Won’t let you go your way looking like someone kicked you. A pint or two always makes it better - just a quiet night out with the lads.”

“Well…” Gabriel hesitated a moment, then relented. A pint or two was nothing he couldn’t take - he’d had nights out like that in Southampton, first with Daniel and then with other colleagues. And besides, the man was in his late sixties; surely, things wouldn’t get too out of hand. In the end, he smiled and nodded. “... Only if you let me pay the second round,” he said.

He did pay the second round. Owen Brown paid the third. A friend of his paid the fourth; Gabriel insisted to pay the fifth.

Afterwards, he wouldn’t be entirely sure any of them was paying at all.

***

Ever since regaining his memories of Gabriel - and before then, really - Sandalphon had wondered what meeting him face to face again would be like. Last he’d seen him, Gabriel had been terrified of him, hiding behind Beelzebub of all beings; it was not a pleasant thought.

He could speak with Michael without fear now, at least, and Sandalphon hoped it was only a matter of time before he would willingly summon him, too, so that they could talk. Clear up, if possible, even if it would be a difficult conversation.

What he had not expected was for Gabriel to summon him by drunkenly shouting his name in the back of a pub in Luton, England, before the eyes of a group of drunken humans who cheered at his appearance like it was a magic trick while someone from inside yelled about not firing fireworks close to buildings.

And Gabriel looked… almost more dishevelled than he’d been when he had been cast out of Heaven, except that now he had No blood on him and a smile on his face almost too wide to be physically possible.

“San-dal-phon,” Gabriel had slurred, throwing an arm around his shoulders before he could say a word and turning to the humans. “This is my friend, guys!”

“I, uh…” Sandalphon had blinked as the humans raised their glasses and cheered. He chose to give a polite smile. “Greetings,” he said. Some responded to his greeting, some just drank, someone put a glass in his hand, and he stared at it for a few moments before realising they expected him to drink.

“Good,” Gabriel was muttering, arm still around his shoulders. Strange as his behavior was, it was… nice to see he was not afraid of him. “Good stuff. Try.”

Ah well, Sandalphon thought, may as well do as he asked. It wasn’t like a glass of whatever concoction the humans had offered him could hurt an angel, anyway.

***

“Uuuugh.”

“Owww.”

“Head hurts.”

“Where are we?”

“... Earth?”

“This isn’t Heaven for sure.” Gabriel sat up, fighting back a wave of nausea, and blinked blearily to put his surroundings into focus. They were in… someone’s back garden, it seemed, on what looked like a semi-inflated camping mattress. “Probably still Luton,” he muttered, rubbing his face, and turned. Whose house was that? He’d only seen Owen Brown’s home from the front, so it was hard to tell. God, they must have been blind drunk to crash like that. The sun was just rising, and he barely remembered a handful of moments from the night before.

Behind him, Sandalphon was struggling to sit up as well, his suit all wrinkled; Gabriel suspected his own suit looked about as much of a mess, and went to uselessly smooth down the front. “You… miracled the glasses full a few times, didn’t you?”

“I think? I-- ah, yes. Yes I did. In front of witnesses.”

“Drunk witnesses. They will either forget about it, or think they dreamed it up.”

“God, I hope so. If Michael finds out, I’m going to be in trouble.”

“You can sleep on my couch if they cast you out,” Gabriel tried to joke, trying to brush back his hair and entirely missing the uncomfortable look Sandalphon gave him. “Agh, my head…”

“Wait, I can fix that.” A touch on the back of his head, and the pain was gone - as was the hangover as a whole, the unpleasant taste in his mouth and the ache in his lower back. Gabriel stood, glancing down - his suit was once again clean and pressed, too.

“... Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He heard Sandalphon standing up as well, and turned to look at him as he miracled his own clothing back in pristine condition. He adjusted his collar, and cleared his throat. “Well, that was… an unusual evening.”

“It was,” Gabriel agreed. “Er… why are you here in the first place?”

“You summoned me?”

“I did?” Ah, he probably had. “... My apologies. I was intoxicated.”

“I could tell. But-- still better than having you scream and hide behind the Prince of Hell, no?” Sandalphon added, clearly trying to joke. His smile froze when Gabriel flinched - at the mention of Beelzenbub, namely, but Sandalphon couldn’t tell. “I mean-- sorry. Shouldn’t have brought it up. I know you have… good reason to want us to keep away.”

A sigh. “Do I?” Gabriel muttered, turning to face him fully. “I knew you wouldn’t have harmed me again. And I knew you didn’t have a choice when you did."

“But we sort of did,” Sandalphon said, meeting his gaze. “We could have refused and-- gone with you.”

“Rebelling to God on my account?” Gabriel repeated, and found himself unable to contemplate the thought. “You’d have found yourselves in Hell, and not Earth, for something like that. It doesn't bear thinking about,” he added, realizing the truth of it only as it passed his lips. Say that Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon had indeed refused to carry out God’s order - what then? They would have faced God’s wrath, probably thrown down in Hell, while Gabriel was stripped of his wings and cast down on Earth anyway.

And Gabriel found he couldn’t bear the thought.

“We… we should have--”

“It doesn’t matter. The outcome wouldn’t have changed,” Gabriel cut him off. “It was… out of your hands. No point thinking about it now.”

A long breath. “All right. But I am-- glad we still remember you.”

Something about those words warmed up a spot in Gabriel’s chest. He smiled. “Thank you. I’m glad I never forgot you.”

“If there is anything you need-- anything at all--”

A sudden whistling noise caused Sandalphon to cut off, and Gabriel to pull out his mobile phone from his pocket. The battery was still full - a little miracle by Aziraphale ensured it never ran out - and there was a flashing icon on the screen, that of a text message. The number was not among his contacts, but Gabriel suspected he could guess who it came from.

He simply didn’t really know anyone else whose number could possibly be 666-666-666. No one he was on speaking terms with, anyway.

Are we still on speaking terms?

Gabriel forced himself to ignore the thought, and opened the text message. There was a name, an address, followed by only three words: it is him.

Gabriel read the message again, then put the phone back in his pocket. He briefly touched his breast pocket, where the message Daniel had written was. He had memorized it, of course, so he could relay it to his brother, but what he hadn’t thrown it away; the reason why he had not were a few brief lines Daniel had written on the back of it that were not addressed to his brother.

They were addressed to him.

Thank you for doing this for me. Sorry I didn’t believe you when you said who you were but, I mean, come on. I miss having you around. You’re a good man, what does God know anyway? Hug my brother for me and give the guys at work a pat on the back. PS - Fabrizio was right, putting cream in carbonara does land you in Hell. Warn Łukasz to stop.

“Gabriel? Everything all right?” Sandalphon asked, and he looked up.

“... Yes. I do need a favor, though.”

“Anything.”

“Could you give me a lift to Devon, by any chance?”

***

In the end, Lawrence Brown hadn’t moved too far from his old home in Plymouth. Or maybe he had, and made the decision to return to Devon in his later years; not something Gabriel could blame him for. Built by the sea, Paignton seemed a good place to live.

The house Gabriel found himself looking at, too, seemed the perfect place to spend one’s retirement; a small white cottage with flowers in the garden, and a tree for some shade. However it seemed that no one was home, which was not something Gabriel had really prepared for. After knocking the door a few times to no avail, and briefly considering writing a message with his phone number - not viable, as he didn’t have a pen - he decided it would be best to try again later. Before he went, however, he tried to glance in through the window, just in case--

“... May I help you?”

A voice called out behind him, causing Gabriel to flinch and turn. He found himself facing what, for a moment, looked very much like a cloud; a very white and very fluffy cloud, with four legs, black eyes and a lolling tongue. A-- yes, a dog. Gabriel had been long aware of their existence, of course, but would never cease to be perplexed by the sheer variety of shapes and forms within what was essentially the same animal.

He’d never really wondered how humans had achieved that, but then again, humans were capable of more than he had thought possible for a long time - up to looking at some of God’s most efficient killing machines on Earth and somehow deciding they were going to make friends out of them, tying themselves to said killing machines with a length of rope. Or leather. Or fabric.

In this one case, it was leather specifically that tied that giant, smiling cloud of a dog to its human. A woman, somewhere between sixty and seventy, with gray hair pulled up in a bun, a rather oversized jumper, and thick black-rimmed glasses. She was looking at him questioningly, and Gabriel cleared his throat, giving his best smile.

Come on, he told himself, you’re the Messenger. You have delivered far odder messages than this one. Just don’t start with ‘do not be afraid’. They always freak out when you do.

“I think you may, yes,” he said, still smiling. “My name is Gabriel Archer. I’m looking for Mr. Lawrence Brown. I understand he lives at this address?”

“Oh,” the woman said, “I’m afraid my husband is out for some errands, but he should be back shortly. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she added, not stepping closer. A little wary of a stranger she found peering through her window - Gabriel supposed that was normal, even if he hadn’t showed up in the midst of golden light with a vast array of otherworldly and, he could see it now, frankly unnecessary features for the task.

The fluffy white cloud made a boofing sound, just kind of smiling at him, and Gabriel could see why she wasn’t counting too much on it being of any protection should he turn out to be… what did humans seem to fear again? Axe murderers? Gabriel certainly hoped he didn’t look like one.

“No, we have not,” he said. “Nor have I had the pleasure to meet your husband yet - I have… a message for him. From his late brother,” he added quickly.

Whatever she had been expecting, that was not it. She blinked, recoiling a little. “... From his brother?” she repeated.

“Yes. Daniel Brown,” he said, and saw some recognition in her eyes.

“He… talked about him, a few times, but not much,” the woman muttered, and it was easy to tell, from her expression alone, that it had been a sore spot for Mr. Lawrence Brown - the brother who had rejected him so long ago. She finally took a step forward, clearly reassured he was someone with an actual reason to be there that did not include mugging or violent murder. “Late-- has he passed away?”

“... I am afraid he has. I am sorry,” Gabriel murmured, and he truly was. It felt wrong, on every level, because it should have been Daniel to stand where he stood, to finally see his brother again after so long. He was meant to be a messenger but ah, he wished he didn’t have to be now. “I am here on his behalf, or… at least I picked up the search where he left off.”

“Are you his solicitor, or…?”

“Only a friend. Daniel had been looking for your husband to make amends, but he didn’t know… his current name.”

A sigh. “Of course, he would not,” she murmured, and finally stepped closer, holding out her hand. By her side, the cloud-dog kept wagging its tail, tongue still lolling. “I’m Berenice,” she said. “Lawrence’s wife, though you gathered that much. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Archer. ”

Gabriel smiled. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, shaking her hand. When he let go of it, it immediately went to rest on the dog’s head.

“Well, it is awfully rude of me to keep you standing at my door like a salesman. Do come in. Lawrence should be back soon, or else he would have taken his walking stick. I still would very much prefer if he took it for short walks as well. He has a bad knee and I always tell him that his stupid kneecap doesn’t give a toss how long or short the walk is, when it decides to give in it gives in and he’d be in for a nasty fall without the stick. But he’s a stubborn old goat, of course. Pushing seventy and still acting like he’s twenty.”

Gabriel smiled, thinking back of the numerous occasions Daniel had insisted on picking up more weight than he could reasonably carry in the warehouse, just to show off, only to spend the entire evening complaining about his back ache… and then do it all over again the next day. “Seems stubbornness ran in the family.”

A chuckle. “I am sure he’ll be glad to hear more about what his brother was like,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. Gabriel hoped it would help, although nothing could change the fact he was there to inform Lawrence Brown of the untimely death of his younger brother.

“... I do hope I can give him more than bad news,” he said, and followed Berenice inside, daring to pat that dog-shaped cloud on the head to receive a soft boof and a very pleased look.

Maybe, Gabriel reasoned, the humans were on to something when they took killing machines and chose to make friends out of them.

***

"I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you." -- John 15:15

***

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onlyshadowkin · 4 years ago

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Sylvanas Loyalists still Exist

I Would like to Preface this with the understanding, that this is my reply to Blizzwatch. I am a 16 year fan of WoW, and I have been playing since Vanilla. I have played both sides, Horde and Alliance. I know a Crunk ton of Lore, and I have some pretty strong opinions about in game events, and Lore Characters. if you are an Alliance player, this rant, is not for you. if you are a Horde Member, who likes Thrall, and the current state of Alliance Boot licking, this Rant is not for you. save yourself the pain, read something that will give you happy thoughts! go Read Ms. Roux’s new book, she is a wonderful writer. I support there being Writers who are good at what they do. if you want something a little more informed Lore wise, by all means go pick up a Kristy Golden book, I recommend Arthas or Warcrimes! both Excellent reads! Lore lovely, and thick with understanding of the world. Horde and alliance friendly!

Now, for those of you who are My Loyalist Brothers and Sisters! Please, join me! let me know what you think about My thoughts! do you feel the same? if not, then why? what am I missing? what do you think the ending should look like? I am just fed up, with being told I do not exist. I am fed up with the Alliance! I am fed up with the Horde leaders who should not be in power to begin with. I am sick to death of people who do not know the Lore having their say about what happens.

I am sick to death of the Hypocrisy of the Alliance, of their Self Righteous Arrogant demented thoughts on what is right and wrong, and their trying to impose it on other races and cultures! I am tired of their Xenophobic bigotry, and their ham handed claim to being the “Good guys” which is utter nonsense.

I am sick to death of Thrall, who abandoned the Horde, leading the Horde, and being put in power, or putting in power, the leaders of the Faction he abandond to Garrosh. I am sick of Alliance Members being put in charge of the Horde Quests, like Valeera Sanguinar, or Baine Bloodhoof, or Thrall. Because, let’s face it, these people are Alliance Members.

I am sick of Leaders who have done eff all to help their people or heal the wounds their people have suffered under Alliance hands. Like Lortharmar, and Talanji, and Gaeyra!

I am sick to death of Calia Menethil who may as well be Alliance, and Lillian Voss who was never a Forsaken to begin with. Both of whom Refused any responsibility for their people, and Fellow undead, until it suited them to do so. Calia was capable of treating with the Alliance on her people’s behalf, she could have come forward at any moment before, as the living heir to Lordaron and told Anduin, or Varrian to leave Lordaron to those who belonged there, the Forsaken. to let them alone, or invite them back into the Alliance. She does none of this! instead she starts an insurrection on a field that is supposed to be peaceful, and gets people Killed, who were innocent of crimes, she basically forced upon them. Voss, she wanted nothing to do with the Forsaken, wanted not to be a part of the Horde, did not want to Serve Sylvanas, and basically tells everyone to leave her alone to kill Scarlet Crusaders. Which we do. She becomes Neutral in WoD, and can be conscripted by Horde or, wait for it, Alliance! Basically an Alliance Member. So, how is she leading the Forsaken? Neither of these women should be in charge of the Forsaken, even if Sylvanas never returns!

I am pretty much done, with all of it. there needs to be some serious fixes to the way things are going. Sylvanas was right, the Horde is nothing! because it pretty much does not exist with the Roster we have going for the leaders here. I want my warchief back. I am not foolish enough to think that is possible, however. I want Sylvanas in charge of the Forsaken as she always has been, not that I think that will be a thing. So maybe, there is a third option! Maybe, there is a way to go to a totally new side, and have Sylvanas be it’s leader. it could be done!

I am not foolish enough to think Blizzard will listen to my ramblings. I do not think I have a snowballs chance in hell, of ever getting them to listen. I think though, this will probably be my last Horrah. I think this will be the Last expansion I play in, since they have forced me into a corner, where the Game, and it’s Lore is no longer fun for me. There is new stuff I Like, but none of it has to do with my Faction or my supposed leaders. none of it has anything to do with my character as she has been. it all has to do with the Shadowlands, and when they go away, I am concerned that my joy for the game will go with them.

“No. Nathanos is not tied to Sylvanas, and no, they really have not been trying to please anyone but alliance Sympathizers. Not that I have seen at least. If there is more, in the Shadowlands, to prove we are about to get something wonderful in the story, then great! At this point, I do not think there is any appeasing the Majority of Forsaken players, who want Sylvanas back. None of those I know Like Calia, or Lillian, at this point, they are all of the Forsaken I know, and including myself angry about how the story has played out, and the Forced take over of the Forsaken and indeed of the Horde by the Alliance and those who would be friends to the Alliance. when you talk about the "Faction" of blight Loving Forsaken, you are talking about the Majority. When you are talking about the Traitors, you are talking about 1 in 100 maybe, because I have not come across these Alliance loving Forsaken in my 16 years of playing WoW. I am pretty ticked there is no mention of the Loyalists, as we still exist. We did not just go away, and we are not about to stop following Sylvanas. Those Forsaken who ran to the Alliance Side in Before the Storm, they were Traitors, and those who returned immediately as instructed before this meeting, they lived. Calia's Presence got those all who did not make it back in time Killed. The Sister of her Abuser on the Field shows just how dumb Anduin is. She should have been in the chapel and stayed there if she wanted to come. Traitors deserve a Traitor's Death. Like Saurfang and the Forsaken who died before him, they owed their Loyalty to Sylvanas. the Forsaken more so, because they were given the choice to follow her, return to undeath, or go about their merry way, so long as they did not directly appose Sylvanas and the Forsaken. Lillian Voss, was one such undead, who was raised, who went her own way. she did not swear Fealty to Sylvanas, and she continued to live in undeath unscathed by Sylvanas. Derrick Proudmoore, was a weapon, against the Alliance, who are our enemies. Who committed more atrocities, than Garrosh and Sylvanas combined. Teldrassil was deserved. Baine, who owed his loyalty to his warchief and his people, Killed Horde members to free the weapon, and give it to the enemy. Sylvanas did not kill or oust any Horde member, In fact she was more inclusive in her decision making than Thrall even was. Saurfang not only defects to the Alliance, he murders Horde Members in Swamp of Sorrow, and Causes insurrection against his Warchief, who he owed his Allegiance to. Any of those who Followed the Quest line know, that as Loyalists, Sylvanas has no dastardly plan. She tells you to go along, to stay out of it, that what ever happens happens, she at one point wants you to let Baine go, as part of her plan. She never mentions burning thunder Bluff, Thrall is the one who suggests this. She never says she is going to Execute Baine, though she should, she never says that is what she is doing. In fact, Thrall and Saurfang murder more Horde members when they Free Baine, who is blatantly a Traitor. Baine who hands a weapon back to our enemy, the same exact enemy who murders the King of our new Allies, the Father of Talanji, in his home. He had not attacked the Alliance, he was not a part of the Horde at the time, and Jaina and Genn break into his Castle and murder him along with many of his people. Sylvanas makes a deal with one of the Ruling houses of Kultiras, She makes a Deal, instead of bust up into the Alliance aligned Capital City of Kultiras and Murder Kathrine Proudmoore. Who at this point, is an Alliance Supporter. Jaina Proudmoore is an Alliance Supporter, and She becomes Lord Admiral. Then, the Dark Lady sends us to Azshara. We both Free and kill Nzoth because of the Dark Lady. Nathanos Delivers the Blade that is used to weaken Nzoth. She is Directly responsible for Nzoth's downfall. Lortharmar, pissy that he mussed his hair on the way down, not only decides to turn traitor, but then Works with and Befriends, the woman who Murdered his people in Dalaran with her own hands, who kicked families from their thousands of year old home, imprisoned them, or killed them, if they refused to leave their homes. She flat out tries to Execute Romath, Lortharmars closest friend, and then she murders the King of our new Allies, and the Father of Talanji, but Lortharmar sides with her. Baine Sides with her. Saurfang sides with the Alliance. Traitors, ALL. We are expected to Just, accept the Alliance puppets as leaders? The Traitors, who ousted the woman who was responsible for our Survival on the broken shore, for our survival on Dark Shore, as we followed Saurfang's plan. She was the reason for our Survival in Icecrown, through the pit of Sauron and the Halls of reflection. She is responsible for weakening Arthas, and his death. she is Responsible for being the first on the shore to fight against Garrosh forces in Siege of Org. She won the Battle of Androhal, and the Fight for Gilneas! Maybe sometimes using questionable tactics, but she won them for the Horde. she Fought on the front lines in all of these! at the Broken shore, who was first to touch down for the Horde? Who was it who used her most Precious Resource to pull all the Horde out, and Save their lives as we were clearly about to fall? Who was the one, who sailed our Ship, the only one, back to Org, Herself? the ship, You the player wake up on, the only one in the Harbor? Sylvanas, saved our lives, time and time again. Through the expansions, she has fought on the front lines. She is the single most effective Military tactician the Horde, or Alliance has ever seen, and has personally saved the lives of ALL of these Traitors, and they still, chose to help our Hated enemy, the Alliance. The Self Righteous Alliance, who do not even know the Significance of the phrase, Loktar Ogar! Who disrespect the Mak'gora. Who think they have the moratorium on honor, on Loyalty, on the freedom of choice. They presume to dictate what the Horde should and should not do. What Resources the Horde is aloud to have. Where the Horde is aloud to go. Who the Horde can Allie with. None of that is up to the Alliance. They do not have the moral high ground. Sylvanas won the Mak'gora. Saurfang said of Garrosh, that he would see him forgiven, if he won a Mak'gora against Saurfang. Sylvanas won! Even though Saurfang cheats. She wins. She is Still Warchief! Traitors. Then what happens? The Alliance is let into Orgrimar! by who? by the very people who owe the MOST to Sylvanas, those who she rules over and cares for the most, the ones, who's lives she saved, the ones who she gave a home to! the ones who she fought to get Justice for. the ones she saved from Garrosh war machine, that would have seen them spent to the Last. The Forsaken betray their Queen, and let the Traitors and Alliance into Orgrimar. The Horde Loses the War, because of Traitors, and Deus ex Machina. By Plot armor, and Stupidity on the part of the other Horde "Leaders". Traitors. I am a Loyalist, obviously. I followed Sylvanas away, when the Alliance entered the City, and now, I have been told, I do not exist. That I am not a Loyalist, that all of them were murdered by Thrall, or imprisoned. Thrall says this himself. Thrall who would have died on the broken shore, if not for Sylvanas. Nathanos, owes his very Sanity to the Dark Lady, and if he does turn on her, there is no saving this story. That means, that I am the Most Loyal, that my fellow Loyalists, who Still would serve the Dark Lady given the Chance, really Are, the MOST Loyal. She was right, the Horde is nothing, not anymore. The only Leaders at this point I do not actively hate, or I do not think are Traitors, are Kiro, and Gazlow. That makes me absolutely Sick. Talanji has forgiven the Traitors? who sided with the Alliance, who Murdered her Father? Great. The Horde is nothing. none of them would know what Honor was if it bet them in the face. there has been no concession made to those who like Nathanos. there has been no attempt thus far to try and bring the Loyalists back into the fold. Or Punish us! Either way, it tells me they think I do not exist. The Champion of Azeroth, does not exist. Along with all my Brothers and Sisters, who are STILL Loyal. So, please, do not try to tell me, that they want to show or serve all sides a decent answer. Because My side has not even been considered in the story thus far. It is an impossible task to please everyone. I do not want to be Alliance, The war is not over for me, as with Most Veterans of war. There is no healing to be done for my character, and her story, because the Alliance has not payed for their hand in so many Atrocities. No one has been put on Trial, on the Alliance Side, and All of them are guilty at this point. They are Hypocrites all of them. Baine deserved punished for his Betrayal, Thrall, and Lortharmar, and the rest, with him. At the very least, they should no longer be aloud to serve as leaders of their Races. They should not be representing the Horde in ANY capacity. They do not belong ruling over the Horde on a Counsel. At the Very Least! I think Baine Deserves execution for his hand in all this. Thrall, does not belong in the Horde anymore. He abandoned the Horde to the hands of Garrosh, and he put Gallywix in power over the player Character after you free him from Gallywix and the Alliance, and help Aggra. The Alliance who fired on a ship, because they did not want there to be witnesses to their capture of Thrall. Who fired on a Ship, full of the LAST of the Kezzan Goblins. Genocide, right? and Gallywix, tries to enslave all of us, and only is fought off by the player, and Thrall, and Thrall puts him in charge of the Goblins. Thanks Thrall, you absolute Jerk. Like I said, zero room for the Alliance to be the Moral police here. I realize this rant has kind of gone on, but it has been building for a long while. There has been a Grievous Wrong done to my faction, to my favorite Lore character, to My Warchief, and to my player Agency. I am still hoping Blizz fixes this. If not, this will be the last time I play a WoW expansion. I am not apposed to a good wrap up to the story, so do not get me wrong. I am not apposed even to Sylvanas Death, but it better be well done. If Tyrande runs up at the last moment and Kills Sylvanas, or we are forced to kill her, or Thrall steps in again! I will not be forgiving. Nathanos betraying her, not going to have me forgive anyone either. I honestly do not know what the answer is here. I have my ideas on how I would like the Shadowlands to end. both with Sylvanas living, and with her Dying. So there is a chance! there is a chance they can pull it out of the fire, but it is a Slim one. I will say this, the new Alliance leaders, gives me hope there could be new leaders for the Horde! Leaders who are not wrapped up in 16 years of blood. I Like Shandris! I Liked the Gnome you get to play through BFA with, Steelspark? she was awesome! Keshan?! great! Flynn, Great! Lorna Crowly, and Taelia Fordragon! Great! now just do this for the Horde. Kiro and Gazlow! Wonderful! Nisha! she is awesome. Lady Liadrin, I might be ok with her taking over for Lortharmar, maybe. Guess we will see. “

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edge-lorde · 5 years ago

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original vampire bullshit 4. final!

i got to the orcs. it is done. felt good to write this but now i must sleep. will link to 1-3 tomorrow. EDIT: part 1 here PART 2 HERE part 3 here

This next part may be a bit disjointed because at this point in time, I have not fully realized why the vampires of this world would be doing some of these things. I have no idea if this is even remotely efficient way of running a war effort. But this is MY pretend. The holes that i cannot fill will be taken care of by the concept of cow tools for now.

Blood farms. What are they?

I have already written about how vampiric control works in free, normal countries. Those are the norm because vampires do not actually care enough about human societies to actually try to run them. But what happens when they do try to take more direct control? Typically these look like walled or very remote pieces of country with a small town in the middle. The vampires themselves typically still do not try to be enforcers of strict rules or be in direct leadership positions. There will still be human organization with the vampires off to the side somewhere with tables and lists of things they want this population to accomplish. Classically this is how much blood needs to be taken to sustain the patron vampire clan, who needs to give it next, and how to keep everyone healthy enough to do this. Quality of life in these places is usually fairly good, because the vampires see themselves as farmers and they need their crop to be healthy enough to harvest and also because they don't care about control as much as they do complacency. As much as they can, vampires try to make these places nice enough that people will not want to leave. They do this by providing enough resources so that there is nothing to fight over and by keeping their human populations extremely isolated so that there is nowhere that a human who wanted to leave could think to go. There must be enough space in these places that if some humans want to break off from the others they can, but not so much that the vampires can't find them.

Now time for a little thought experiment. Imagine a specific vampire clan. A large one, with ties to the government of a powerful country. A branch of this clan decides that they want to build a vampire run health research facility. The goal of this would be to find an alternative to human blood that vampires could use instead so they could finally have they’re perfect floating vampire utopia in the sky. This sounds like a great idea to everyone. They set out to find a site in order to do this, but they want it to be vampire only, obviously. So they decide to make it its own deal and have it be in conjecture with a blood farm, the concept of which already exists. This means it should be in an isolated place.

They weigh their options and pick somewhere perfect. They begin construction. They wall off a section of forest and fill it with lots of domesticated plants and animals and build many nice places for humans to live. They build the research facility and begin the process of filling their blood farm population. They gather hundreds of babies and toddlers from both adoption agencies in their country of origin and from the existing communities in the place they decided to build. This place may not technically be part of their human country, but there are no other vampires claiming it so that makes it free real estate, right? The vampires gladly offer to let these existing human communities voluntarily integrate themselves into their overall workforce, but it seems that not all of them want to do this. That, and it really is better for blood farms to start without any ties to the outside world. This is why they primarily want children who don’t know how to speak yet, so they can be raised communally within the new city walls and taught a constructed language so they won’t have anything in common with the local humans and wouldn't be able to speak with them even if they did come across each other. It really is better just to make a clean break like that so there won't be drama later on. If the locals really have a problem with that then they really shouldn’t be allowed into the larger facility area either. And the vampires only use force to protect themselves.

Flash forward a bit and what's this? The vampires human country is at war with with this other human-only conglomerate population thing? And the home country refuses to admit wrongdoing? In fact the larger vampire clan refuses to admit there is a ‘war’ going on at all?

This war is very long and drawn out. Most of vampires weapons to be used against humans are bio-based. They begin conscripting the humans living in this blood farm (and others) as soldiers because the main country refuses to acknowledge the war. The focus of the research facility moves from health to military based. They begin to develop more soldiers at faster rates. They go from drafting existing humans to cloning and splicing perfect soldiers and create a separate class of human living in the blood farm. There are now civilians, which are the base population and do not leave the main blood farm unless it is to work at the facility, and soldiers who are raised from birth to fight in this war.

The vampires build more facilities, they're getting good at it. The war goes on. Its less organised now, the enemy has been greatly weakened by the vampires bio-weapons but they have allies. The vampires are super paranoid about letting their super soldiers out into the world. They are terrified that the enemy could be catching up to them in terms of bio-tech and be creating their own super soldiers from their soldiers DNA, or by creating their own bioweapon diseases that could infect one of their own. Through that patient zero, their entire human population could in theory be wiped out, which would essentially end the war. The soldiers also take too long to make for them to make sense. The artificial womb is invented, that increases productivity but they still need to be trained from birth. Ways of pre-aging soldiers so they are ‘born’ as adults are invented, but they are useless and dont know how to do jack shit. Ways of implanting muscle memories and other knowledge and skills begin to be researched.

It happens. The vampires army experiences a blow in the form of a counter bioweapon. Many soldiers die. They become barred from going back into the main blood farm population areas. The war effort slows. The vampires don’t leave but there is little left of the enemy human population left. After they had their success killing of the soldiers they retreat and try to rebuild for a while. There is an uneasy truce.

The vampires do not stop their developing though. They realize they've been doing a lot of extra useless stuff with them that they didn't need to, once they realize they can make all training obsolete. They lie low for awhile. Turns out these new soldiers can be made pretty fast, like a full grown, fully trained soldier born in less than 10 months from nothing fast.

But everything is quiet now. They are almost left to themselves as long as they don’t leave their facilities. This is what they wanted all along. But it's a matter of pride now. The vampires do not want to make peace with their human enemies now. They made a fool of the clan and used their own tech against them and never conceded. The land they live on is still not claimed by any vampire clan-- except for them. They will live to see these humans brought down now even if it takes a thousand years. They have all the time in the world. Its been at least a hundred since the war has begun.

The vampires plan their next move carefully. They do not want to directly subject their home country to another war again. They would still rather humans would just take care of their own affairs. The ideal situation would be if another human population would just sweep in and finish the job. They had been made out to be monsters in the last war and they didn't like that at all. They knew that if they were to send out more soldiers like they did before, the enemy will know right away that they are to blame. What they needed was a scapegoat.

I never mentioned this before, but other kinds of hominids currently exist/existed within living memory of this setting. Just roll with it for a second. The vampires decide what they need is for a new group to enter into the picture, one that everyone can agree is bad. Worse than vampires my a mile. Worse than the old stories told about them. Worse than any enemy they've faced before. An enemy that could be the enemy of all enemies and unite all others against them. The vampires would join this fight too, if necessary, meanwhile they would continue to manufacture this new enemy in secret. They would continue to do so until all their enemies were overwhelmed and forced to join up with the larger vampire run country for protection. It would be awkward at first, but what is the enemy of your enemy but a friend?

In order to do this these new soldiers would have to look different from the old human soldiers. And they would have to act different too. They would have to strike terror into the hearts of all who came across them and be able to back up their threats.

So the vampires thought to themselves what was the most terrifying enemy they could think of and it came to them-- Unaffiliated vampires. They have none of the reasons to value human or vampire life the way any natural being should and a reason to kill. Working off this framework, they set about finding ways to instill the perfect frame of mind into their future soldier experiments. In tandem with this, they began collecting odd features developed within their human experiment populations and began splicing them together. Next they began building great cylinder vats that could grow hundreds of these new soldiers at a time, as well as places to house them that were NOT near their precious blood farms.

They planned to pack their heads with all they needed to know and no more, and supply them thinly enough to make the human towns enticing targets. All that, and a little bit of green dye was more than enough to make any human think these new creatures had nothing to do with them. Now all they needed was a name......

#vampires #orc #orcs #original #vampirism #rambling #Thoughts #vampire

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worryinglyinnocent · 5 years ago

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Fic: Everything Money Can Buy (12/12)

Summary: The Greatest Store in the World AU. When misfortune strikes and leaves Emma Swan and her son homeless just before Christmas, the ever-resourceful Emma has a ready solution. They’ll move into Mills Department Store, a place they can only dream of affording to buy from. It’s not easy, having to deal with a perpetually grumpy doorman, a nasty assistant manager, and an extremely suspect Santa, but Emma and Henry soon learn that the kindness of strangers is something money can’t buy.

Swan Believer centric, with eventual Swan Queen and background Rumbelle and Dwarf Star.

Rated: G

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[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven] [Eight] [Nine] [Ten] [Eleven] [AO3]

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Twelve

“So, that’s the way it all happened.”

Henry didn’t know how long he had been telling his tale to the policewoman and the social worker, both of whom were looking at him with expressions that he couldn’t quite work out. They were either completely disbelieving of everything that he had just said, or they believed it all and yet couldn’t quite believe that they believed it, or they believed him totally and were trying very hard not to laugh at all the antics that he and Emma had got themselves into over the course of the last few days whilst staying at Mills.

He looked from one to the other, and he began to think that it was probably the second option. He didn’t exactly have any reason to concoct such an elaborate lie, and although he had a very good imagination, he wasn’t sure that it would stretch to such things.

“Can I see my mum now?” he asked plainly.

“In a minute,” the policewoman said. “She’s giving her own statement, but she’ll be out soon.” She made a few official remarks and then stopped the tape. “I think that’s all that we need to talk about though, so you can go out and wait in the waiting area for her.”

Henry nodded and grabbed the polystyrene cup of hot chocolate that the social worker had given him when he had first begun his story. It was stone cold now; it seemed like he’d been in the police station for hours, but he didn’t want to leave it behind and look ungrateful.

The social worker led him out into the main waiting area, and even though Mum wasn’t there yet, Henry was incredibly glad to see that Belle, Gold, Astrid, and Leroy were all sitting around and none of them appeared to be wearing handcuffs.

“Henry!” Astrid jumped up, tripped over the coffee table stacked with back issues of magazines and flung her arms around him; Leroy reached out to grab the cup of chocolate before it went all over everywhere. Belle got up and joined in the hug.

“Are you all right?” Astrid was asking. Henry was half-convinced she was about to start patting him down for injuries, although what he could have sustained whilst sitting in a cramped little office for a couple of hours was beyond him.

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Have you seen Mum?”

There was a general consensus in the negative, and Henry began to get rather worried. At the end of the day, they had been trespassing in the store, and since Mum was the responsible adult of the two of them, she was the one who would have to be held accountable. At least the other staff who had helped them out didn’t seem to be being penalised in any way.

“Are you ok?” he asked the room at large.

“We’re all fine,” Belle said. “Not quite sure how fine we’ll be when Regina gets here, but even if she does fire us all on the spot, I don’t care. It’ll have been worth it to make sure that you two were all right. And to take down Zelena, of course.”

Gold chuckled. “I have to say that was certainly a highlight of the day. A very merry Christmas indeed.”

As macabre as the joke was, it still made Henry laugh, and he settled down between Astrid and Leroy to wait for Regina Mills, owner and impresario of Mills department store, to turn up. Or for Mum to be released, whichever came first. Astrid put an arm around him, and Henry was grateful for it, despite wishing that it was Mum instead.

To his immense relief, only a few minutes later, Mum came out of the next office. She also wasn’t wearing handcuffs, although she looked rather shaken. Henry jumped off his seat and bounded across to her, flinging his arms around her middle and refusing to let go. Maybe if he kept up this limpet hold on her then they would be completely unable to remove him, and they wouldn’t be separated by social services.

“It’s ok.” Mum held him close. “It’s ok, I’m here.”

“Are you going to stay here, though?” Henry mumbled to her sweater. “Are you going to have to go to prison?”

“No. But we’re not out of the woods just yet. It’s all going to depend on what Ms Mills says when she arrives.”

Henry, who had never met Regina Mills in all the time that they had spent in the store, was not at all mollified by this. What would happen if she decided to go ahead with the whole ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’ thing?

“Are we going to be separated?” he whispered.

Mum sighed. “I don’t know, Henry. I’m sorry. I wish I knew, but they didn’t tell me.”

Mum sat back down in the waiting area in Henry’s vacated seat, Astrid and Leroy moving up one so that Henry could perch beside her. He held onto Mum’s hand very tightly. For all he was ten years old, and for all Mum said that he was wise beyond his years, he felt very small, very young, and very frightened right now.

The time continued to tick by slowly. Although the four Mills employees were technically free to go, they were all staying, maybe out of some kind of unspoken solidarity with each other and with Henry and Mum, all of them waiting to stand alongside them when Regina Mills appeared.

“All right, will someone please tell me what’s going on here? Gold?”

Everyone in the waiting area leapt to their feet and started talking at the same time, apart from Mum. Henry himself had launched into the tale that he had just told the policewoman and social worker, but he broke off and stared at Regina Mills with the same dumbfounded expression that Mum had on her face.

Regina Mills was the brunette woman from the stairs, the one that Mum had developed just a little bit of a crush on, and it was clear that Regina was in just as much shock as Mum and Henry were, and that she wasn’t taking in any of what Belle, Gold, Astrid or Leroy were saying. Gradually, they all became aware of that too, and one by one, they trailed off, leaving the waiting area in silence.

“You.” Regina’s voice was soft, and, Henry thought, a little bit awestruck. There was no censure or accusation in it, just quiet wonder.

Mum waved awkwardly. “Erm, hi.”

“You’ve been living in my department store?” Regina shook her head in disbelief. “And I never noticed? Despite all the times I saw you in there? Despite us having an actual conversation?”

Mum shrugged. “Yeah.”

“I…” Regina pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to need a minute.”

At this juncture, the other four began their vehement defence of Mum and Henry again, until Regina held up a hand sharply.

“Quiet!” Everyone obeyed without hesitation. “Since you four have been aiding and abetting with the trespassing and breaking and entering, I don’t want to hear another word out of any of you.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the waiting area, Henry reflected afterwards. The only sound was the sharp tap of Regina’s shoes as she paced up and down. Henry had been in some dicey situations in his time – he’d been in several since they’d started living in Mills – but he’d never felt the same kind of tension as he felt now. It was heavy and suffocating, everyone looking at each other and no one daring to speak despite the overwhelming need for some kind of reassurance, for someone to say that it was all going to be all right. The horrible truth of the matter was that no one did know if it was going to be all right.

At last, Regina stood still and looked over at Mum.

“I really don’t know what to say. A part of me really thinks that an example ought to be made, but at the same time, if it wasn’t for you being somewhere you shouldn’t, then my assistant manager would have got away with half the Cartier counter and none of us would have been any the wiser. And honestly, deciding to stay in the store to make sure that your son had a safe roof over his head over Christmas…”

“We’ll get new accommodation in the new year,” Mum pleaded. “This was only ever going to be a temporary arrangement; we didn’t have anywhere else to go…”

Regina nodded.

“No, I understand. I don’t think that there’s many people in the world who would have the courage and the sheer audacity do what you’ve done, Ms Swan. The unfortunate implications of it aside, it’s incredibly admirable.”

She looked around at her gathered employees, all of whom were looking rather nervous, but still defiant and rallying around Mum and Henry to the last.

“Thank you all for your swift action in helping bring down Zelena and Killian,” she said. “As for the other transgressions, well, since nothing has been taken and nothing has been damaged except in the pursuit of justice, I think that we can put this one down to experience and pretend it never happened.”

There was a visible, if not audible, sigh of relief in the waiting area, and Regina turned her attention back to Mum and Henry.

“That goes for you, too. I think I should be able to find you somewhere better to stay than the store until your new accommodation is ready.”

Henry was about to say that there was nowhere better than Mills, but wisely decided that it would not be a good idea to rock the boat when everything looked like it was going to turn out ok.

“In the meantime, would you perhaps like to join me for Christmas dinner?”

Henry and Mum just stared at each other, and then at Regina, and then back at each other.

“Are you serious?” Mum asked faintly.

“Well, it’s Christmas.” Regina gave a little shrug, and if Henry didn’t know better then he’d say that she was feeling just as nervous as they were. “And I happen to know an excellent shop where we can get all the ingredients for Christmas dinner at a terrific staff discount.”

“I… Surely you have your own family…” Mum was completely overwhelmed. Henry had never seen her like this before.

“Not really. You’re very welcome. As are you,” she added to Belle, Gold, Astrid, and Leroy, although they did seem a little like an afterthought.

“Thank you for the offer, but we’re all right,” Gold said.

“I don’t think that the turkey and potatoes are going to be much good having been in a cooling oven all day,” Belle pointed out, and any reply that Gold could have made was drowned out by a screech of alarm from Astrid.

“I LEFT THE OVEN ON!” she screamed, racing out of the police station without another thought for those left inside. Leroy made his apologies and rushed out after her, leaving Regina and Mum just staring after her whilst Henry tried his best not to laugh.

“Christmas dinner sounds great,” Mum said eventually.

It was the weirdest Christmas dinner that Emma had ever been to, but it was also by far the happiest. Regina didn’t pull any punches when it came to providing the best for her guests, and Emma didn’t think that she was going to need to eat for a week once she finished her helping of Christmas pudding.

They had all ended up in Regina’s townhouse in the end. Astrid’s turkey had burned to a cinder but she had thankfully not burned her flat down, and now she, Leroy and Henry were sitting in the living room watching Home Alone on the biggest widescreen TV that Emma had ever seen, the light from the Christmas tree illuminating them like a happy little family. Emma couldn’t help but smile. After everything that they had been through as just the two of them, it seemed so strange and so fortuitous that in their darkest hour, when they needed it most, they had found some more family, people whom they would never otherwise have ever come into contact with.

Gold had left the table halfway through the meal when his son had called him, and last Emma had seen, he was still talking, sitting on the stairs in the hall and smiling the biggest, happiest smile that Emma had ever seen on him. Once she’d got used to all his Christmas jumpers (today’s was Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer), and realised that he wasn’t half as standoffish as she’d always known him to be, she could see that he was really a softie on the inside, but worn down with hardship just as she and Henry had been. Emma was glad that he had Belle to bring some light into his life.

Speaking of Belle, she was in the kitchen brewing up her virgin mulled wine concoction with Mrs Lucas, Regina’s housekeeper who had been the source of the wonderful meal that they’d just eaten. Emma could hear the laughter from the dining room, and she allowed herself a giggle of her own. It was Belle who’d taken charge back in the yard once the police had arrived, and Emma was thankful that she had, fully believing that she might well have been spending the day behind bars if it hadn’t been for Belle’s intervention.

And then there was Regina, the only other person left in the dining room with Emma. They were eyeing each other up from opposite ends of the table, Emma could tell, even though they never quite managed to catch each other in the act. It had been all right when everyone else had been in here with them, but Emma had the distinct impression that Henry had shepherded Astrid and Leroy away purposefully in order to give his mother some time alone with her crush.

At least she got the feeling this time that it was mutual.

In the end, she decided to be bold. It was Christmas after all, and Regina had invited Emma and Henry for dinner, and more than likely to stay, since she’d promised them a better place than the store and as yet no mention had been made of where that was.

Emma got up and moved around the table to take the seat next to Regina that Mrs Lucas had occupied whilst they’d been eating.

“Thank you,” she began. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a Christmas like this one. I don’t know how Henry and I can even start to repay you for all that you’ve done for us today.”

Regina shrugged. “Just don’t make a habit of sleeping in my store, that’s all I ask. I’ll have to have words with the security guards about how they didn’t notice you for nearly a week. But then again, maybe not.” She smiled. “Maybe I ought to congratulate them instead. After all, it meant that I got to meet you properly. I’m sorry about my first impression.”

“I was never a huge believer in first impressions,” Emma said. “I didn’t exactly make a great one either, but I think we can move past that.”

Regina nodded. “Yes, I would like that.” She suddenly sprung up from her chair just as Emma was about to lean in a little closer. “I forgot something; when Gold and I went back to the store to pick up the things for dinner.”

She raced out of the dining room and returned a few moments later with the stocking that Emma had hung up for Henry the previous evening, the shabby parcels inside still intact.

“Gold found it outside your tent. I didn’t think that you would want Henry to go without his presents today, especially after all the, erm, excitement that you’ve had.”

Emma took the stocking, clutching it close to her chest. In all the ‘excitement’, she’d clean forgotten about it.

“It doesn’t look like much,” she said, looking around at her much more opulent surroundings.

“Nonsense. It’s from you, so Henry will love it. I may only have known you for a little while, but I can see just how deeply you two love each other.”

“We only have each other.” Emma paused. “Well, we only had each other, for a long time. Maybe now we’ve got a few more people as well.”

There was silence in the dining room, the sounds from the rest of the house fading into the background.

“I think I’d like to be one of those people, if you’ll have me,” Regina said softly.

Emma nodded. “Absolutely.”

She leaned in then, feeling Regina’s warm lips brush her cheek and the corner of her mouth. It was the beginning of something, something that Emma had not felt or wanted in a long time, but that she was definitely not averse to now.

As she got up to go and give Henry his Christmas presents, she felt the world’s biggest grin beginning to steal over her face.

Despite all the odds, at this grimmest point in her life, her faith in the kindness of strangers had been restored, and despite all the luxury that Mills had to offer, she knew that it was something that money couldn’t buy.

No matter what happened in the new year, Emma knew that with new friends and new love around her, it would most certainly be a happy one.

#swan believer #swan believer fic #Emma Swan #Henry Swan #Regina Mills #Swan Queen #rumbelle #dwarf star #Fic: Everything Money Can Buy #Last Chapter

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littlefeatherr · 6 years ago

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Prompt fill for @maroucia : Mail-order bride modern AU. In a modern Westeros, the North is much poorer than the South and Sansa is lured by all the riches and temptations of the south and so, she decides to offer herself as a mail-order bride. Of course, she catches Sandor’s eyes who himself has turned to the idea because he hates dating seeing that his face is burned and all, but he still would like to find a wife. Read more below or on AO3 here.

Chapter 1

Settling down with a mug of tea, Sansa needed to take a break from job hunting. Opening her tablet, she decided to indulge her favorite escape: perusing vacation blogs, pretending she was planning a visit to the southern countries of Westeros.

While the south was full of cities bustling with diversity, plenty of jobs to be had for the asking, and mild weather, the north never recovered from the war. And the ten year winter season was a burden itself.

The poor economy denied basic resources for northerners, especially since King Joffrey placed tariffs on all the products exported from there as part of a trade war. In the past year, many industries closed. And families that Sansa had known all her life were moving away.

Since her father passed away five years back, there had been huge financial burdens on the family, and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to leave them. So she settled on a local university to continue her dream of becoming a custom dressmaker.

Bran’s snowboard accident happened not long after; in-home physical therapy and medical bills further strained the family funds. Sansa had to quit school and work two jobs. Since their mother spent her time working and caring for Bran, Arya and Rickon grew wilder by the day. Winter had come with a vengeance for the Starks.

Sleet rattled against the windows, shaking her of her recollections. Gods, what she wouldn’t do to be on a southron beach right now. She was determined to reach her dreams, one way or another. She just needed a plan.

Sansa tapped her finger on the bookmark of her favorite blog. Escape to the warm, sun-kissed beaches of King’s Landing! Sansa wished for nothing more. Life seemed so carefree for the people who lived there. The sight of the wealthy, young, tanned and fit men and women frolicking in the waves sent a pang of envy through her.

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she had a vacation, could barely remember a time when she felt the effortless contentment in the people smiling back at her through the screen of her tablet.

Eagerly she moved onto the second one. The beautiful shores of Port Lannisport, one of the largest, richest cities of Westeros. Come to visit and see it’s prosperity for yourself!

More beautiful, tanned people, Sansa complained inwardly. This time they were wearing swimsuits that barely covered their most intimate places, enjoying champagne under burgundy and gold cabanas of the exclusive Casterly Rock Club.

Yes, Casterly Rock Club was very elegant, but she would feel too out of place there if they even allowed shabby northerners into the place. Every one of the guests was surgically enhanced and dripping in gold and diamond jewelry.

Swallowing hard, her hand instinctively went to the silver and sapphire direwolf charm at her neck, the last nameday gift she had received from her late father. It was a reminder of better times, and the ones she prayed to the gods were ahead for her. She fingered it while whispering a quick prayer to her father before tapping on the next bookmark.

Shop the opulent Lannisport Outlet Mall, your one-stop destination to luxury! Oh, she would much rather visit there! Ever since she was a little girl, Sansa loved embroidery, sewing, and designer clothing.

The scenes showed happy families laughing while eating southern delicacies, bringing up a bitter lump in her throat. Young people in the latest summer fashions carried designer Dornish leather handbags as they shopped and flirted under a shaded canopy.

Wrinkling her nose, Sansa glanced down at her sweats and ratty sweater. When was the last time she went shopping? Aside from The Wall Mart, there weren’t many places to shop near Winterfell - and none of them fashionable. She would definitely need to do some serious online retail therapy if she ever visited Port Lannisport.

Faintly Sansa could hear her mother speaking to someone. On to the next region, she said to herself as she tucked her feet under her legs.

Visit the rugged hills of the Westerlands, the richest lands in Westeros. A landscape dotted with golden, rolling plains and caves from which gold and silver mines pour forth deep veins in astonishing quantities. Abundant gemstones and precious metals mean lower prices on all your jewelry needs!

With widened eyes, Sansa clicked on the pictures of black fertile fields, apple orchards, Pinot grape vineyards, and Black Mission fig tree groves. Further inland lay dense maple forests that opened up to crystal blue lakes and river rapids, reportedly renowned worldwide for whitewater rafting.

Gemstones of all kinds, gold and silver jewelry, beautiful log homes in the verdant foothills all caught her attention. Oh, she would definitely visit the Westerlands first! The featured delicacies and riches were sensational!

But how could she go? The family barely had enough money to get by; not many opportunities presented themselves as of late. Her gaze fell on a bookmark icon for a mail-order bride broker she had set up months ago. Missandei’s Marriage Brokerage Suite. Let us help you find your perfect match with a beautiful, northern bride of your choosing.

That’s one way to get south. And if I’m chosen, I could put my husband’s fee in a trust for Bran. From what Sansa had seen on the website, Lannisport and King’s Landing was teeming with beautiful women, but the farming areas surrounding them were not heavily populated. The men there depended on agriculture and vacationers for their incomes – jobs that left little time for meeting potential partners.

Her mother’s voice pulled her out of her fantasies - and back to the dreary reality of life. Stern Aunt Lysa was impatiently tapping her foot; Sansa had been so caught up in her musings that she didn’t realize she’d entered the room.

“Sansa, are you daydreaming again? Put down the tablet for a moment, please.”

Her mother had a way of saying “please” that sounded anything but polite, especially when she was about to lecture to one of her children.

No wonder Arya and Bran are nowhere to be found. Suppressing a sigh, Sansa braced herself and turned to face them.

“I cannot understand for the life of me why you haven’t yet settled down with someone and moved out,” Catelyn began. “I was married for four years at your age.”

“Mother-“

“It’s all I can do to keep Winterfell let out, and food on the table for Arya and Rickon, and Bran with all the medical bills, I can’t afford to feed you too.“

“Mother, I know,” Sansa struggled to remain respectful. Ever since she turned eighteen, this had become a well-worn topic between them, and at twenty, Sansa had already said all she had to say on the subject.

Enter Aunt Lysa.

“That is why I started college,” Sansa pulled her mother close, “so I could make real money, not just the little I bring doing housekeeping and selling on Etsy.”

“And what good did it do you? You knew from the start that we could ill afford it, but you were determined to waste what little money your father left you on it.“ Aunt Lysa interjected. "And here you are, squandering your days on that damned tablet!”

Her words stung. “I wanted to help the family by having an actual career. I thought maybe I could open a clothing store and help the local economy, but there aren’t any opportunities here.” Sansa stepped away and wrung her hands.

Exasperated, Aunt Lysa shook her head. “Always with the dreams. Well, it’s time you grew up. Take your educated self south, Miss.”

“I would love to go, but since I, as you say, wasted my money on education, I don’t have a way.”

Aunt Lysa and her mother exchanged a look. "Uncle Petyr lives in King’s Landing in the famed Red Keep and he’s offered to take you in. You could work with his showgirls’ costumes-“

Tears stung Sansa’s eyes, for this, too, was a familiar and unpleasant topic between the three of them.

“No, absolutely not! He’s not my uncle, so I wish you both would stop with that! And they aren’t showgirls, Aunt Lysa, they’re sex workers!”

"Ungrateful child!” Aunt Lysa sputtered. “This family has no better friend than Petyr, especially since your father and Jon both-”

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Sansa that is just a terrible rumor started by jealous people trying to discredit him.” Catelyn insisted.

“So that’s the official party line he has you two repeating.“

Catelyn gaped at her, but Sansa went on, “He’s always staring at me in the grossest way. Sending me friend requests on my social media. He’s a stalker.“

“Sansa, that’s your college third wave feminism talking! Petyr is old-fashioned, and he’s not about to hide that he’s interested in you. What’s wrong with that?” Aunt Lysa fumed.

“What’s wrong is that I’ve made it clear that I don’t want his attention - and yet he refuses to take no for an answer!” Sansa set her jaw. “If you like him so much, why don’t you go live with him and leave me alone?”

Catelyn pinched Sansa’s arm. “By the gods, Sansa, you can be just as willful as Arya at times!”

She jerked away from her.

“You don’t have many options. So, it’s either go with your Uncle Petyr, young lady, or get in touch with a marriage brokerage.”

“A marriage brokerage? To offer myself as a mail order wife?” Sansa’s nervously considered the possibility. It was an honorable way to find a husband and definitely a good opportunity…

“Petyr offered to do it himself, but I don’t like your attitude, so you just do it on your own!” Aunt Lysa hissed. "Just go on and become a mail order bride on one of those bargain sites and see what kind of monster you end up with!”

“Whoa, wait just a minute - Petyr offered to buy me outright, didn’t he?!” Sansa shouted. “And not just for my sewing skills!”

Catelyn side eyed her. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Mother-”

“I married your father as a mail-order bride.” Her mother arched her brow.

Great, another guilt trip.

“And I married your Uncle Jon as one, the Seven rest him.” Aunt Lysa added, even though Sansa had turned her back to her. “You have a duty to your family. It’s time you made good on it.”

“We need the money, Sansa, and there aren’t many prospects up here-“ her mother gestured to the shabby conditions around them, “and Bran and Arya and Rickon need me. What would you have me do?”

“Stop being so selfish, Sansa!” Aunt Lysa shouted.

“Good gods, Aunt Lysa, even the marriage agencies give women the right to choose their husbands!”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa fought to calm her temper and think rationally. Perhaps if I joined up with one of the free sites, I will find a nice man, settle in with him and who knows? Love might follow. It worked out pretty well for my mother. Less so for my aunt.

Biting her lip, Sansa thought it over. Could she really muster up the courage to reach out to a strange man? To be his wife, and share his bed?

Sansa had already looked at a few sites, and they didn’t seem so bad; each one had ways and means to ensure successful matches. The only caveat was the marriage had to be consummated the day of the wedding, and if they didn’t get along by the end of the trial period, Sansa would need to return the money - and to the north.

Excitement and a bit of fear took hold of her, while Sansa’s silence increased her mother’s unease.

“Stop that lip nibbling, Sansa, it’s unladylike and a disgusting habit you picked up from Arya. So what will it be: go stay and work with Uncle Petyr, or become a mail order bride?”

Sansa had so little ownership of her own life since her father died. Yet today she would regain control, snatch it out of thin air, all for herself.

“Fine, Mother, I’m going to do it my way. I’ll meet with a marriage brokerage as soon as possible.”

Without a word, she picked up her tablet and left the room, leaving her mother crying over her ungrateful daughter and her aunt harping on her duty to the family.

#sansan #sansa x sandor #sansa stark #sandor clegane #sansan fanfiction #loong post

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poeticandvaguelysweet · 6 years ago

Text

Prompt #234 - Deep Blue

ANON: Owen reflects on the fear and worry he felt when Claire was stuck in the gyrosphere underwater

This fic contains mentions of Maisie but is pretty much Maisie free! I am trying to find a balance between Maisie fics for you all. But a good 99.7% do ask for her or haven’t stated whether they want her in it or not. So, if you would like a Maisie free fic please make sure to state that in your prompt! :)

AO3

DEEP BLUE

Her apartment was dark, the only light coming in off the street making the room swim in murky waters. It reminded him of the island, of the cliff, the gyrosphere and the burn of salt water in his eyes. It was nothing compared to the panic beating over eager and loud in his chest, thudding against his ribs. It threatened to collapse, tranquilliser on the verge of shutting him down as the cold water seeped into his skin.

They were free from that torment. The day endured and fought until they could consider themselves safe once again. He couldn’t relax regardless, unable to close his eyes and let his bones settle. Even in the comfort of her apartment where the night was slowly coming to a close. The day would move when they woke, Claire and Maisie, up and seeking breakfast half looking to him for answers.

But he couldn’t stop looking at her, watching Claire’s chest rise and fall in her sleep. Her mouth was poised open, face turned towards him as her hand, on her stomach, moved with her breathing. He needed to watch her. It was the reassurance that his mind needed, the confirmation that she was still breathing and not stuck in that goddamn hamster ball. Hours had passed, the day turned into night twice since, but he couldn’t scratch that image from his mind. Couldn’t stop his heart from pounding or his fingers from wanting to curl themselves against her skin.

She was okay, he had to repeat to himself. She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay. God, they had spent 18 months apart, and now he felt ridiculous for letting that happen. How could he take advantage of her presence like that? Willingly giving up the time he had with her when it had potential to be so short. He always thought he’d go back to her, give up on his miserable life and beg her for forgiveness. The island just proved to him that nothing was certain or promised, just because she was there now didn’t mean her life couldn’t be taken away in seconds. He had to watch her, panic unconfined on her face as she pounded against the glass, movements desperate.

He never wanted to find themselves in that situation again. He never wanted to see Claire in front of him, potentially dying while he tries to save her. Owen nearly stopped breathing himself, almost chose to choke on salt water in front of her only so he didn’t have to leave her in their last moments. It was the trust in her eyes that sparked him to move for air, leaving her for a minute that felt like hours so he could fill his lungs and try again.

He panicked the whole way to the surface, kicking as hard as he could, scared the water would fill the gyrosphere and drown her before he came back. As a SEAL he had to be good in stressful situations, and Owen always had. He was calm, collected, under control like Claire in front of a board of investors. But, when it was her life on the line, he was struggling to keep his heart and mind in check. Neither were overlapping in the way he needed them too. He couldn’t think straight because all he could think about was Claire convulsing in her circular prison.

Why the fuck did they go back to that island? Instead of caving to her decision, he should have tried to change her mind. Maybe if he didn’t sulk half the time they sat in the bar he could have taken her back to his trailer and kept her distracted long enough to miss her flight.

‘I can hear you thinking.’ Claire mumbled, shifting in the bed beside him. He didn’t jump, flinch or twitch. His body knew she was awake before his mind caught up, too busy berating himself about the past. ‘You sigh a lot.’ She whispered into the deep blue, Owen unsure of if she was looking at him or the ceiling.

‘Sorry.’ His hand slid across the bedsheets, finding hers to give it an apologetic squeeze. ‘Go back to sleep.’

She grunted, shuffling closer to him despite the bandage he knew was wrapped tightly around her leg. ‘I can’t sleep if you’re up torturing yourself all night.’ Claire admitted honestly, tilting her head towards his, their eyes meeting in the dark. He had wrapped his arms around her, instinctively as she moved closer. After everything, he wasn’t going to deny the woman a hug just like he hadn’t picked up a blanket and proceeded to sleep in the living room. Owen wanted to be near her.

‘I’m not —‘

‘Don’t lie,’ She cut him off. He was dead tired down to his bones but couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes. It was the nightmares he was scared of, falling so deep into the darkness that he was convinced it was real. He didn’t want to face her dying again. Claire shifted beside him, hissing a little due to the gash in her leg now freshly bandaged and treated. He was drawn from his thoughts at the sound, arms wrapping around her a little too tight. ‘Do you know what’s helping me be brave?’ She asked him like she was speaking with the young girl currently asleep in her guest bedroom. Owen shook his head, chin brushing across the top of her now clean hair, revelling in the soft scent that drifted into his nose. ‘Knowing that when I open my eyes, you’ll be right here.’

She was still scared. Owen knew it, saw it in the way she insisted they could make it all the way back to San Fransisco with their tired bodies and a car that didn’t belong to them. She dawdled when they arrived, shuffling in her steps as she did this and that, over fluffing to make Maisie comfortable. Claire drew a bath while Owen fetched a garbage bag for their clothes, Maisie standing awkwardly in the corner tired but unwilling to close her eyes.

Even when they were clean, freshly dressed and out of options Claire refused to stop. She came up with other things to do. Claire checked her cupboards for proper child-friendly foods, and when she found none, she started writing out a list.

It was Owen that had to coax her towards the bedroom, lying beside her until her body relaxed and her breathing evened out. He needed to see her settled before he could calm himself. The task was impossible, mind distracting him in the blue light, making Owen see things that weren’t there. He could see her mouth moving behind the glass, eyes blinking into the searing water, reading her lips. ‘Go! Save yourself!’ Repeating his name here and there like she just wanted to hear it for the last time while the opportunity was there.

‘I’d never leave you.’ He told her in the dark of the night, arms reaching for her as he pulled Claire’s body tighter into his chest, revelling at the feeling of her curling into him, hands tucked against his chest and her head under his chin. He had left her. She told him to go. But, he would never leave her in danger.

Claire understood. Had witnessed it in the last forty-eight hours. He didn’t leave her to go to that island alone. He didn’t leave her in the valley. He didn’t leave her at the bottom of the cliff. He left her in the diorama in Lockwood’s library, but Claire had told him to go, enforced it with a promising kiss.

‘I know,’ she told him, fists curling around the shirt he wore. ‘We’re going to have to work things out.’ Because the next thing that came after this was seeking out those released dinosaurs. They needed to be protected. Claire Dearing would not stand idly by while they got hunted down, captured, killed, tortured and whatever else. They needed to do something. The DPG was their best resource, but they required Claire to keep themselves afloat. Owen wasn’t going to like that idea, but he had no choice. They did this. They helped move those dinosaurs to a place where they were not safe, and even though a nine-year-old had hit the release button, they were there, an adult needed to be responsible.

Owen kissed the top of her head, pulling her in tighter, a hand sitting on the small of her back. ‘I know.’ He just didn’t want to do it now. ‘It’s not going to be easy.’

‘I think it will be worth it.’ She whispered, head tilting as her chin grazed his in the dark. Anything with her was worth it. Owen learnt that in their time apart, the shock of her near departure from this Earth reminding him that he rather be with her than without her. If they moved fast, they could round up all the dinosaurs within a few months and then this whole thing would be over.

Her hand slipped from his chest to his neck, fingers sliding up Owen’s nape as they started to scratch across his scalp. The movement was soothing, Claire’s touch everything he needed and more as he felt her breath beside him, chest to chest. Before he knew it, his eyes were heavy, lids closing on the darkness.

[…]

He was swimming, water rushing his ears and stinging in his nose. Owen had to blink, once, twice, three times to clear his vision, blurred in the deep blue. ‘Owen!' He heard her voice, the sound a desperate plea as he turned his head right and left trying to spot her in the dark.

‘Claire!’ He called for her, throat cracking as he searched. His heart was thudding, so erratically Owen swore it was going to burst right out of his chest. He heard the faint thud on the glass in his ears. A weak sound drowned out by its environment as he turned towards it. She was there, stuck behind the glass again, inside that dumb orb. Her palms were pressed to the surface, revealing the lines in her palms. He’d had a girlfriend in high school who used to run her fingers over those lines, telling him how long he would live, the expectant time of their relationship and the exact number of children he would have. Owen always thought it was bogus, still did. But, looking at Claire’s palms almost yellow in the light, he wished he had listened more, wished he could read those lines and tell her that her number wasn’t up yet. She wasn’t supposed to die at thirty-six.

She looked at him mournfully, movements weak as she banged again. There wasn’t much energy left inside of her, Claire’s batteries running flat. ‘I love you.’ She mouthed, Owen, reading the words on her lips as his head started to shake.

‘No.’ He told her, air releasing from his throat, muscles contracting as his need for air made itself known. She was saying goodbye, but he couldn’t let her. His hands patted down his pants, searching for something in his pocket that could crack the gyrosphere open. ‘I got you!’ He mouthed, her eyes turning sad as she shook her head. He could see she was trying to tell him something, but Owen wouldn’t look, refused to read the words she was saying. ‘I’ve got you.’ He repeated to himself, feeling the push of the words on his lips as his lungs contracted.

His fingers couldn’t find any grip against the glass of the gyrosphere. With a hurried force, he tried desperately to get purchase on something, anything that could provide him leverage enough to peel the door open. His heart was beating faster now, a bare inch from his skin as he tried to get her out.

Owen was choking on nothing, vision turning spotty as the lack of oxygen to his brain started to make an impact on his ability to help her.

‘Owen,’ her voice reached him, clear as day and right in his ear. ‘I’m right here. Right here.’ He felt a warmth against his chest, small pressure, body tingling as it always did at her touch. ‘Wake up.’ She whispered, calmly if not a little worried as he squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep breath in. When he opened they were moving into a sapphire blue morning, the sun not yet covering the earth, but lighting the sky in warning. Gone was the water, replaced with the curtains in Claire’s bedroom, her apartment warm around him. Her hand moved from his chest to his cheek, ‘There you are.’ He felt her smile in the dark, his body relaxing as she took a deep breath. He had been holding her too tight in her sleep, his body tense and tight as his thick arms held her in a vice-like grip.

‘Are you okay?’ He brushed a kiss past her forehead, his breathing heavy as he felt the tremble of fear trickle down his spine. It wasn’t the first time he had near crushed her in his sleep, holding on so desperately she couldn’t breathe. He had hurt her before, in the midst of a nightmare, his fingers bruising marks in the indents between her ribs. He always woke before it got too bad, her voice able to lull him out of the depths of the dark.

Claire nodded easily. ‘Always.’ She kissed the base of his neck, right where his shirt curved, feeling the bob of his Adam's apple against her cheek. She nuzzled her nose against the spot lightly, breathing in the smell of his skin. Claire shifted, moving free of his arms for a second before he felt her leg slide over his waist. He held his breath, waiting for a hiss to escape her lips.

She settled her body weight on top of him, and her head returned to its place under his chin. His hand found their place on her back, rubbing small circles as she breathed against him. ‘’m right here.’ She told him, cheek flat against his chest, muffling her voice as he took deep breaths in time with hers.

Something was comforting about her weight on top of him, all around him, and there. His mind couldn’t trick him, couldn’t deliver false truths, not when she was breathing right there, her back under one hand, her ass under the other. They were quiet as his heart rate returned to normal, the thud comfortable in her ears as hers beat against the opposite side of his chest.

‘I’m okay.’ She told him, fingers moving against his chest, curling in the fabric. ‘Still breathing.’ He felt her smile before she breathed out a heavy sigh, melting directly on top of him. They were quiet again, breathing in each other, vanilla under his nose when he felt her wriggle. It was a small movement, the shift of her hips and slide of her hand. He felt her touch on his belly, shirt misplaced as the tips of her fingers grazed his skin on their way towards his pants.

Owen grunted, the sound harsh in his throat, moving his body roughly as his hand found her wrist. ‘No,’ he told her, mournful of his lack of desire. Owen wanted to be intimate. Needed it. But he couldn’t, at that moment, allow things to be sexual. Not when he was still holding on by a thread. ‘I just want to hold you.’ His voice was wet, throat stuck suddenly as he felt his eyes blink back tears in the dark.

Her hands removed themselves, returning to run her fingers tentatively along his sides as she whispered a quiet ‘sorry’. Owen didn’t know what it was that broke him. The exhaustion, her soft voice, the force behind his nightmare or the warm and sleepy weight of Claire right on top of him. Whatever it was. The floodgates opened, Claire lifting her head from his chest when she heard the catch in his lungs. She thought she was crushing him, but he had only wrapped his arms around her again, keeping a tight hold as his chest shook.

‘Hey,’ she was quiet, her voice glitter in the dark. ‘Oh, Owen.’ One hand rubbed at his side while the other reached for his hair, Claire pecking his tear soaked cheek as her fingers lightly scratched at the back of his neck. ‘We’re okay. It’s going to be fine.’

Nothing broke past his tears, Owen letting a sob break past his control as she dropped her cheek back to his chest.

He hated feeling vulnerable. Hated being weak. Hated, that there was something on this planet that could get to him. Owen disliked that they were going through this again. If she weren’t his anchor, he would have been mad at her for pulling him into it. But, Owen knew, she was always his anchor in every universe and every scenario. He was still going to go back to that island to keep a trusted set of eyes on her.

‘We’re not doing that again.’ He told her, almost a command. They couldn’t rule out dinosaurs, but Owen was going to try his damned hardest to keep the both of them right out of the destruction path on this one. Whatever it took.

Claire nodded, soft cotton of his shirt soothing on her skin. ‘I don’t think I can do bodies of water ever again.’ She admitted quietly, her hand tugging on his hair involuntarily. Owen hummed, maybe it could be something they compromised on.

#clawen #jurassic world #claire dearing #owen grady #fallen kingdom #despite the odds #this is actually a fucking mess but I am struggling with prompts so much atm #so i gotta push through

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shadowfae · 3 years ago

Note

**breathes in deeply**

(vent)

So I'm a soulbonder who's looking to make a new bond to a particular person and nothing is working.

I know a lot about this person, I know a good amount about their world, and I know what I need to do, but none of the things I've tried have worked. I've bonded people before in both intentional and unintentional ways. This is unusual for me. I don't quite know how to handle what's going on here.

I know what's probably causing it. My mental health kinda tanked between this and the last time I called a new bond. Like. I've started experiencing psychosis issues intra-headspace. Thankfully I've avoided anything that severe in meatspace, but I have had increased issues with my pre-existing executive function and emotional regulation issues. Every time I think I've gotten somewhere with bonding this character it's only been psychosis issues and discernment issues, and it's really, really disheartening.

But even aside from mental health issues, when I'm relatively lucid I'm not having luck.

I've tried summoning, I've tried inviting, I've tried direct "hey come here", I've tried indirect "hey we'd like to talk", I've tried yanking them, I've tried directly appearing to them in their own world, I've tried just trying to talk to them before. Most of these I've tried more than once. Nothing has worked. There may have been contact in the past (and seemed positive-to-neutral about learning more about this place and visiting), but at this point I really doubt even the more reliable incidents. Something should have worked here, and I can't shake the feeling something is going very wrong.

I know I should probably give up and move on at this point, as it's been literal months. Honestly I've asked a lot of places for help and I've looked into what resources I've been able to find on their source world and bonding in general, and my options are running dry. Nobody would blame me for giving up. But I have my reasons not to. I have a feeling about this, and they're in a situation I don't feel like leaving alone. Like, everyone they thought they could trust screws them over. I also DESPERATELY want to at least talk to this person. This entire situation is so fucking frustrating. I'm at the "try shaking cat treats at them" phase.

Also I can't talk to anyone about this because 1. dude's source is from my own AU, and is technically my oc, 2. the places I can talk about this shit are not open to sensitive parts of this, going assume I'm lying, or uh, were exposed to a few cringey false alarms on related things, 3. it's been long enough and constant enough that it's too much to talk about the full extent of this nonsense. 4. My SO can't tolerate this person's source world, so I won't make them endure my prattling.

Because I needed isolation added to this clusterfuck.

Anyway that was good to get off my chest, feel free to throw this into the tumblr void with the identities of anon asks if you want. Or post it, I have no investment in the fate of this.

Mmmm, it looks like there are several issues here that you're facing.

I want to ask: do you have any other bonds right now? Because maybe getting them to try will help, just because their methods will be different than yours, and sometimes you just need a second set of hands. (Or fins, as Albafica wants me to make sure you know.)

There could be a ton of things blocking it, and I would suggest dealing with your psychosis issues first. Not give up, but put this on hold until you know what's causing the psychosis and have dealt with it. You do not want to forge a bond on such a shaky foundation. I'm not saying 'psychotic people can't soulbond', flames forbid I am, I'm reading that this is a new and difficult thing, and you don't want unknown variables getting in your way, especially when they can induce things that look similar to soulbonding but really really aren't.

I have to account for my Devil powers every time I do a spell, ward, or fuck around with the headspace. Because I'm the host and the god in the room, and things answer to me when they won't to anyone else, and Albafica's commentary on that is "stop locking me in a room with your crazy sentient brambles that only speak static whenever you're majorly upset" and I think that's not fair to me, that only happened once and it was accidental, but you get the point. That's a variable you need to be predictable and accounted for.

Then yeah, past that it looks like they're just not willing, and if you want to bond, you need to see it from their side. Because to some random person in their world, you probably feel / appear like a particularly dangerous spirit that's trying to eat them. Al agrees that's how he'd take it if someone pulled that on him, and he's very untrusting on his best days. So it sounds, so far, like your approach is not the best for this.

If you rule out medical reasons for your psychosis - and that is not an easy thing to do, please check out medical things for that, you don't want to fuck around with it - it could also be them refusing you and using their own wards. (Or at least, I can see the line of thought between them trying to stop you and such backlash; but that's an option to consider after medical issues.)

If you can get in contact with them, you need to ask one question, and one question alone, and do not pass go or collect your 200$ until they've answered clearly: do they want you to stop?

You haven't said why you want to bond with them so badly, and motivation is a key factor here. With Goni, he showed up looking for Luco and serves partially as the adult to go to when shit gets bad and also as the resident prettyboy and slut. Al is logical and blunt and his remarks cut deep, but he gives a damn and functions as lieutenant where Goni's advisor and backup. South is uh, he's the demon commentating about how much we should just kill people and he's right, he is, but that's illegal. He also serves as the youngest and the most prone to extreme emotions, and when someone else is doing the extreme emotions, it makes it that much easier for the rest of us to keep our heads. He says what I'm thinking, and then I can deal with it rationally.

They're all people, and they aid each other as well in headspace, but the bond between host and bond is a bit different than bonds with each other. I pilot the body most of the time, I handle everything in meatspace, they help me do that. It's simple: keep the guy who pilots the body running, get body privileges.

And what you need to consider here is not only what they can do for you, but what you can do for them, and how exactly you're going to coexist. Because while my triad of fishmen help me, I also help them, largely because uh, /gestures at the fact they all died in a war in various gruesome ways and the journey they took to get there was actually worse/. It's all fun and games until they're here, away from the danger, and then there's the exotrauma.

Goni handles it by not handling it until he has to and right now we're working on actually acknowledging that he's got issues. South deals with it by being resentful as all hell and incredibly violent and yandere, but being allowed to not pull his punches is still so new to him that it's actually quite good for him to get to say what he's thinking and be respected for it. Al's grumpy about it but is trying to build something of his life now before he falls apart. He wants something to hold onto first, which is smart. Trust Al to figure out the most logical way with none of the words and then adamantly refuse to let that go wrong. He and I both understand bullying the universe into giving us what we want, and since he has full utter control over his own mental processes thanks to being able to make my Devil powers do what he wants, I don't think anyone's going to be able to interfere with his ability to do that.

So now I have to ask for you: what is this bond going to be doing for you, and just as important, what exactly do you expect to be able to do for them? Because they're also an OC, and they may have some goddamn feelings about that. They may see you as having coincidentally written down their life, they may see you as channeling it, or they may see you as the one who made it happen. All of which you'll also see in fictionkin spaces. If they fall into the last category, they're gonna be pissed you didn't give them a happy ending, and they're justified in that, and so are you for not doing that.

You have to be prepared - especially from reading between the lines of your ask here - that they're not going to be as functional as you want them to be. When we handle our exotrauma, we're a mess. Everything gets put on hold to deal with it, and even then, we rely a lot on our partner system (Faolan and the Nebulaic Collective) to keep the body from crashing so we can hold onto our life instead of falling apart utterly for a week straight. We don't do jack entirely with the four of us, and it's better that way.

The fact that you can't rely on anyone outside of yourself, especially considering 1) they don't seem to want this, 2) your attempts either very coincidentally happened alongside or caused serious mental issues that need urgent attention from you, and 3) you don't sound prepared to handle the severity of what you're implying it to be; all goes to show that this reads to me like a terrible fucking idea. I mean that honestly and gently and bluntly.

I don't mean 'give up and don't do this', I mean 'seriously dude either you're not giving me context or you haven't thought nearly hard enough about the realistic way this is going to go', and if it's the latter, no wonder you're having issues.

I already know who my next bond will be, and I know what needs to happen for him to show up. Right now, the four of us are functional, and we have a good Thing going on, sleeping arrangements and all. If we're getting another, a Space needs to open up for him, job to keep us functional that he can do as well as a part to play in our dynamic that is currently not being met. We got Adult (Goni), we got Logic (Al), we got Emotional Teenager (South), we got Has Context And Admin Access (me).

(Side note, South is vaguely 17-19, but he's been treated like he was five for most of his life and has been forced to rapidly oscillate between genuinely horrifying scenarios and being incredibly sheltered, so trying to put any sort of 'he's an average X year old' is downright impossible. He's on the upper end of teens and we call it a day there, and if he hears a word of "you're not old enough to do X activity" then I have to stop him from sending you graphic descriptions of things he can do to your insides and that's no fun for anyone so don't do that please.)

So when we have a space the new bond can fill both in keeping things functional so he has something to do and a space in our relationship so he's not standing on the sidelines looking in, he'll show. As it stands right now, that hasn't happened, so he's not here yet. That and I think I'm stretched rather thin when it comes to bonds, I need much more time with our fishes before I think I can handle more folks in here. So much on my mind, so little time.

But either way regardless. You have several glaring issues that are fairly obvious that you may not have noticed because you can't be objective in a situation you're involved in (true of everyone), and until you fix those, yeah, this doesn't sound like it'll work all that well.

Although I will note that I typically bond via my writing, simply writing from their perspective until they start commentating. They go from 'maybe MaDD doing shit' to 'oh hey soulbond' when they don't comment only on themselves but also on things I'm doing in meatspace. Albafica's a character when he's narrating his own life, he's a person when he demands More Salmon For Dinner; if that makes sense.

I doubt you'd get that far unless they genuinely did want the connection, because otherwise they wouldn't tell you stuff about themselves. Works for me, might work for you, who knows, please get your psychosis symptoms checked out first before touching this again and make sure they actually want to bond and it's actually viable before continuing and then try again I suppose?

A very long answer for a very long ask, but I like Helping, so. Hope that helped a bit.

#asks #anonymous #on soulbonding #on plurality #brrrrr what tags should I use #also opening the floor if anyone else wants to try and help out #anon didn't say no helping so I assume yes helping

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newstfionline · 7 years ago

Text

‘Hand over your son or we’ll shoot him’: escaping Central America’s gang violence

By Tim Elliott, The Age, 14 April 2018

Eva got the call one day last April. “Come here now, and bring your son,” said the voice on the other end. “Or we will come to you and get him ourselves.” Eva lived with 10 members of her extended family in Usulután, a city in the south of El Salvador. As with much of this Central American country, Usulután has a heavy presence of Mara Salvatrucha, an ultra-violent criminal gang, also known as MS-13.

Eva knew the caller was MS-13, but she had no idea what he wanted with her or with her son, José, who was eight years old. “If you go to the police,” the man warned her, “we will make things worse for you.” Eva and José went to the gang house that afternoon. There were several men inside, one of whom approached Eva, pulled out a pistol and put it her head. She asked: “Why are you doing this?” The gunman explained that her ex-partner, José’s father, had fallen foul of the gang; now, by the convoluted logic of the underworld, Eva and José would have to pay. “We know it’s hard,” he shrugged. “But orders are orders.”

Eva pleaded with him. “At that moment, I felt death sitting on top of me,” she says. “I was so scared for my son.” Eva had a choice. The gunman could shoot José now, or Eva could hand José over to his father. That way the boy would be his responsibility, giving the gang leverage over him. Eva agreed, knowing that she had no intention of doing so.

For the next week, she fretted over her options. Then, one evening, the police called: they had received a tip-off that Eva was to be killed. “I remember coming home that night and seeing her, hiding in a closet, crying,” says her 54-year-old aunt, Ana, when we meet at a secret location in the Guatemalan countryside. Eva, 26, has long dark hair and a sweet smile. Ana, on the other hand, seems inconsolably sad. “My poor niece,” she says. “She was so afraid she could barely move.”

That night, the family bunkered down in their home. The police called again: the killers were close, they said. “Lock the doors and turn off the lights.” At 10pm, there was a knock at the door. “We were sure it was MS-13,” Ana says. “But it was the police. They said, ‘Come out, we have you safely surrounded.’ “ They could not guarantee the safety of the family, which included other children and adults; instead, they would drive them 100 kilometres north to the Guatemalan border. “We didn’t know if we could trust them,” Ana says. “But we didn’t have much choice.” The journey took three hours. At 1.30am, they arrived at Las Chinamas, on the border, where the two countries are separated by the Río Paz. The kids were exhausted; some were ill.

A Salvadoran official asked for their documents. The adults had theirs but they were missing the children’s. The official became angry. “How do I know the kids haven’t been kidnapped?” he asked. Ana started weeping. “I said, please have compassion, they are going to kill us.” But the official began swearing at her. “You’ll just have to f---ing well go back and be killed, then.” Eventually, he relented and waved them through. “If anyone asks,” he said, “Tell them I didn’t see you.”

They were in a no-man’s land, out of El Salvador but not yet in Guatemala. Terrified that the gang would come after them, the family hid under the bridge that spans the river. At about 3am, a car with blacked-out windows stopped above them, on the road. Some men got out, and looked around. One of them walked down, below the bridge, but Ana and the children scuttled out of sight. “They’re not here,” the man yelled. The gang members got back in their car and drove off.

“I thank God that none of the kids coughed or sneezed,” Ana says. At daybreak, they boarded a bus in no-man’s land heading north. “The driver was a man of God,” Ana says. “He let us on even though the kids had no papers.” Ana and Eva hid the children under the back seats. When the bus was stopped by Guatemalan border guards, the driver made no mention of the kids. “It’s just these women here,” he said, pointing at Ana and Eva. They rode the bus north, for 150 kilometres, to the outskirts of Guatemala City, where they applied for, and were eventually granted, refugee status.

Now they are safe. Or safer. “MS-13 can find you if they want to,” Ana tells me. She has begun to silently cry. “I still have relatives in El Salvador. When they ask where we are, I tell them we’re in Mexico.”

There are few places on earth more violent than El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala, an area referred to as the Northern Triangle of Central America. In 2016, El Salvador had a homicide rate of 81.2 people per 100,000. Honduras’ murder rate was 59 per 100,000. (Australia’s has fallen in recent years to a record low of about 1 per 100,000.) The violence has its roots in deep, intergenerational trauma, a legacy of agrarian conflict, persecution of Indigenous people, corruption, inequality and, in the case of Guatemala and El Salvador, decades-long civil wars that featured widespread torture and civilian massacres.

But among the most recent causes is organised crime, most of it perpetrated by gangs known as maras. There are many types of maras, including low-level street gangs, but the two most active are MS-13 and its rival, Barrio 18 or M-18. Both groups were formed in Los Angeles, in the 1980s, where large numbers of Mexicans and Salvadorans had fled to escape poverty and civil unrest. When the US deported them en masse in the mid-1990s, they returned home, where they flourished.

Turf wars between the two groups have since turned the Northern Triangle into a virtual war zone, where you can be murdered for any number of infringements: refusing to join a gang; joining the wrong gang; failing to pay a bribe to a gang or carry drugs for a gang; refusing to hand over your house to a gang. (Maras sometimes commandeer people’s houses in key parts of towns, with their land title papers, to monitor comings and goings.) According to a recent report by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), merely “looking mistrustfully at a gang member” is punishable by death. Government efforts to stem the violence have proved largely ineffective: a church-brokered peace between M-18 and MS-13 in El Salvador in 2012 led to a 50 per cent decrease in murders. When the deal fell apart in 2014 the killings resumed.

The violence has sparked a regional exodus. In 2016, more than 450,000 people transited through Guatemala on their way to the US. Many never made it, stopping instead in northern Guatemala, or Mexico, or being caught and turned back to their home countries. The UNHCR calls the crisis “a silent emergency”, but its resources are spread perilously thin. In 2016, the UNHCR set up a field office in Flores, in northern Guatemala, a major transit point for people coming from Honduras. The office has responsibility for 44,000 square kilometres, an area slightly bigger than Switzerland, a good chunk of which is handled by an Australian field officer named James Yong.

Raised in Adelaide, Yong, 31, speaks fluent Spanish and Italian (plus passable Portuguese and French), and has worked for aid agencies in Cambodia, Manus Island and Ecuador. He is slim and good-looking, scarily competent and cooly understated. When I mention he has a big job, he replies, “I guess I have a lot on my plate.”

On the morning we meet, Yong takes me to the local bus terminal, near the UNHCR office. It’s hot, glary, and humid. Migrants mill about, looking a little dazed: some have just arrived, others are looking to leave. A group of boys, no older than 15 or 16, lie snoozing on the pavement under an awning, using their small, half-empty backpacks for pillows. Yong walks about in his blue and white UNHCR vest, introducing himself and handing out information cards explaining, in Spanish, their rights as undocumented migrants.

“If you are fleeing violence or persecution, you have the right to request refugee status,” he says. He also tells them about the Casa del Migrante, a local UNHCR-funded shelter, where they can find a shower, a meal and a bed for the night. Many of the people here seem perplexed by this: they look at the information card, then look at Yong, then look back at the card. They have learnt to expect so little from authority, whether it be their government, police or non-state groups, that the idea of a foreigner walking up and offering assistance is genuinely baffling.

I talk to a man in his early 20s, with dreadlocks and a rasta ear stud, who is sitting on a concrete bench in front of the station. His name is Tomás, and he is from Puerto Cortés, on the Caribbean coast of Honduras. Puerto Cortés, he tells me, is a very, very bad place. “You can get killed for your mobile phone.”

Tomás has three young children back home, where he works--or worked--as a farmer on a small plot, growing melons, corn and beans. About a month ago, some MS-13 members made him “donate” his farm. (Gangs sometimes evict farmers from their land to build airstrips or to clear a drug smuggling corridor.) Now he’s heading north to Mexico for work. He’s been there twice before, three years ago, in Durango, where he loaded and unloaded fruit at a market. Both times he was found out, and deported.

“That’s the way it is,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You get there, they deport you, you try again, they deport you.” The only problem now is that he has run out of cash, and can’t get a bus. If they’re lucky, migrants can pick up casual work along their journey: sorting rubbish at the local tip, or cutting cane for $US7 ($9) a day. But Tomás tells me there is little work in Flores. And so he has been waiting here--literally right here, on this bench--for three days, while his wife back in Puerto Cortés tries to wire him enough money for a bus fare and some food. If it doesn’t come soon, he says he’ll just start walking.

Flores is a unusual setting for a migrant emergency. It is built around a lake, in the middle of which is a small, heart-shaped island, connected to the shore by a narrow causeway. The island is a popular tourist destination, with quaint Spanish colonial buildings and pastel-coloured waterfront bars. Where the causeway meets the mainland is the hard-scrabble suburb of Santa Elena, its heat-baked streets lined with hole-in-the-wall grocery stores and discount farmacias.

Further out, where the roads meet the jungle, is the Casa del Migrante, the migrant house. Established in 2016, the casa is part of a network of shelters dotted along popular transit routes; some are run independently, by local church groups, often with funding from the UNHCR. “Migrants hear about them through word of mouth, from other refugees they meet along the way, or from posters that the UNHCR put up in bus shelters,” Yong says.

The Santa Elena shelter can host 58 people, with separate men’s and women’s sections and a few rooms for LGBTI people and unaccompanied children. It has a pair of iron doors, dormitory-style accommodation and walls topped with razor wire. The setup reminds me of a low-security prison which, for its residents at least, is part of the appeal: no one can get in and rape them or rob them or shove a gun in their face.

The afternoon I visit, a steady trickle of migrants, mostly early teenagers, straggle in, looking thin, sunstroked and phenomenally grimy. Some have been walking for days, sleeping in the bush, washing in rivers. Their feet are blistered and swollen. When they first arrive, the resident nurse, a plump, kindly woman gives them a rudimentary health check. (The most commonly dispensed items are antifungal creams and worming tablets.) Migrants also bring their own medication, if they can. I’m told that rape is so common on the journey that some women take contraceptive pills before setting off.

The refugee crisis has become an industry. It’s common to see vendors at bus stations selling socks, soap, underwear and hand towels. Small shops rent out their power points, where travellers can recharge their phones. Border officials and police often supplement their salaries with bribes from undocumented migrants. Then there are the coyotes, people smugglers, who pay police, border officials and drug cartels for the right of passage through their areas of operation, as well as locals who allow their property to be used as “stash houses”, where migrants can hide.

Reliable figures are hard to come by, but the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement estimated in 2014 that coyotes charged anywhere from $US5000 ($6500) to $US12,000 ($15,500) per person. Often migrants sell their houses to pay for this; if they are sent back home, they have nothing to return to. Enrique Valles Ramos, the UNHCR’s head in Guatemala, tells me that the coyotes’ price includes three attempts to cross into the target country. After that, the migrant must pay again. And the coyotes are ruthless marketers. In recent years, they have spread rumours that US immigration is being more lenient toward children, leading to a sharp increase in the numbers of unaccompanied minors.

But the real winners are the gangs. They profit, first, by threatening businesses and individuals in their home countries; the Honduran newspaper La Prensa estimated in 2015 that Salvadorans, Hondurans and Guatemalans paid $US661 million annually in extortion fees. Then, when the migrants flee, the gangs cash in again, by owning many of the small bus lines that carry them north.

For obvious reasons, transport is a preoccupation for undocumented migrants. At the Casa del Migrante, in Flores, I watch as a group of young men stand poring over a large map of Central America that is stuck to the wall. They are discussing roads and routes and swapping tips on the most reliable bus lines and which checkpoints to avoid; some towns are renowned, they tell me, for their less-than-welcoming locals, or the preponderance of shifty smugglers.

The men also talk of something called La Bestia--“The Beast”--a train, from what I can gather, that has assumed almost mythic proportions. The Beast is not one train but several, a network of privately operated lines that runs from Guatemala through Mexico to the US border. The trains are for freight only--food, cement, plastics, steel--so migrants must hitchhike as best they can, jumping aboard, often when the train is moving, and riding on the roof or perched between carriages. It’s horrifically dangerous, thanks not only to the risk of injury but because the train routes are controlled by gangs which, one migrant tells me, charge a $US100 tariff per “passenger”.

One leg of The Beast runs through Tenosique, a gritty little town in southern Mexico. Tenosique is a popular stop for undocumented migrants, thanks to its location, about 30 kilometres north of the border with Guatemala, and for its large, well-known migrant shelter called La 72. (The name refers to a massacre, in 2010, in which 72 migrants were executed by Mexican drug traffickers and dumped in a mass grave.)

Whether by design or luck, La 72 is only a couple of hundred metres from a track that carries The Beast. The only problem is that the train has no fixed timetable. It might pass through town twice in one week, and not again for the next fortnight. Even then, there’s no guarantee it will be heading in the right direction.

Whenever people hear the train approaching, usually signalled by a blast of its air horn, someone will look out of the window of the men’s shower block, which overlooks the lines. If the train is moving south, they return to whatever they were doing. If it’s travelling north, there is a mad rush to meet it.

As it happens, I’m interviewing a Honduran man, Luís, who has had the great misfortune to have been shot in the head by a gang member and then run over by his truck, when I hear, in the distance, the unmistakable sound of an air horn. The Beast is approaching! What’s more, word is that it’s heading north.

I race out, following other hopefuls. Soon we reach a weedy, derelict siding, just as the train eases in, squealing and wheezing. Refugees, mainly teenagers, are already strung out along the length of the line. As the train slowly passes them they begin jogging beside it, then, picking their moment, jump up and climb onto the roof. There they stake out their spots. Some peer down at us, waving triumphantly.

Suddenly, however, there is an ungodly hollering. A man in a sweat-stained T-shirt is pacing beside the train, screaming and waving his arms. “Come down! Come down!” he yells. Apparently La Migra--slang for border and migration agents--have been spotted at Boca del Cerro, 10 kilometres down the line. It’s a trap. Initially, the kids are too excited to notice, but when they realise what he is saying, there’s a panic. People scurry along the top of the train, and crawl down onto the couplings. As The Beast gathers speed, I watch their long-limbed, adolescent frames silhouetted by the sunset, leaping off like bugs from a burning log.

The influx of migrants is straining the social fabric in many parts of Mexico, particularly in places where the social fabric was never that strong to begin with. One day, in Tenosique, I get talking to the owner of a small shop that sells mobile phone SIM cards. When I mention I’m writing a story on refugees, he raises his eyebrows. “The refugiados are no good,” he says. “There has been an increase here in assaults and robberies by them.”

I ask how he knows that it’s the refugees doing the assaults, and he looks at me like I’m simple. “Some of them are hard workers, but not many.” He adds, “The Guatemalans are fine. They come to buy stuff and then they go back. But the Hondurans and the Salvadorans stay, because of La 72. It attracts them here!” Besides, the Hondurans are pretty much peasants, he says. “They have no culture.”

According to the Mexican government, 43.6 per cent of the population was living in poverty in 2016. One of the things that most rankles locals, then, is the UNHCR’s policy of giving money to recently arrived migrants. This payment, called “cash-based assistance”, ranges from $US50 to $US70 per family, per month.

“They are meant to spend it on their rent, but what they do is buy alcohol with the money and then send their kids out to beg,” one woman tells me. She is standing out the front of our hotel, sweeping the pavement, dressed in skintight jeans and a hot pink singlet. “They all live in the same area,” she says, nodding over her shoulder. “A lot of them are prostitutes.” (This much is true; in the Mexican city of Tapachula, near the Pacific coast, there are reportedly 30,000 migrants, mostly from Central America, working in bars and red light districts.)

One afternoon in Tenosique, I meet a Honduran woman, Livi, who fled her home in 2016. “The 30th of October, to be precise,” she says. Livi is a case study in successful migration. She used the UNHCR money to get set up; she then took a job as a domestic cleaner. Little by little she saved money and now rents her own apartment, where she lives with her two teenage kids. “It has two bedrooms, and even a separate kitchen!” she says proudly. Recently, however, she was returning from work when she was beaten up in the lane behind her home. “Mexicans?” I ask. “No, by Hondurans!” she replies. “They have wasted their time here, the opportunities they have been given. So they resent what I have.”

On the last day of our trip, James Yong, the UNHCR officer, takes me to the town of El Ceibo, at the northernmost border crossing between Guatemala and Mexico. The drive takes us through Guatemala’s northern lowlands, a scrubby, unloveable landscape, much of which has been ruthlessly cleared by ranchers and farmers. Along the way, we pass the occasional group of migrants, walking by the roadside. Most are too tired to take any notice of us. At one stage however, three boys see us coming and hurl themselves, like startled animals, into the bush. “Our UNHCR car is white,” Yong explains. “The same colour as the cars the migration guys drive.”

He winds the car window down, coaxing the boys out of hiding with bottles of cold water. They are very young. They tell us they are 17, 18, and 19, but they look 14 at the most. One of them is wearing a New York Yankees T-shirt; the boy next to him is in a turquoise top with a panda on it. It has taken them eight days to get here from Honduras. Yong asks them if they have any food. “No.” Do they have any money? “No.” Are they meeting anyone in Mexico? “No.” Yet none of this seems to bother them. “We’re on our way north!” says the boy in the panda shirt.

Ten minutes later we arrive at El Ceibo, which is basically an overgrown truck stop. Dusty streets, a small market, a store where we buy a lemonade. Closer to the crossing, two bored-looking Guatemalan migration agents sit manning a boom gate. Behind them is a besa-block booth where another, similarly bored agent is stamping passports. But we do not head there. Instead, we park the car and scramble up a low, steep hill that overlooks the checkpoint. It’s cooler up here; there are more trees, dense bush, a patchy canopy. Hidden among the foliage are a number of tracks.

The tracks are rough and rocky. Some are as narrow as a person, others as wide as a car. “Pasos ciegos,” Yong says--“blind paths”--the hidden routes that undocumented migrants take to escape detection. The word “blind” refers to the fact that supposedly no one can see them, which is absurd, since they are only 100 metres from the checkpoint. It all seems like a bit of a joke. “I guess so,” Yong says. “The Mexican Army sometimes patrols on its territory, but the Guatemalans don’t bother.”

We follow one of the paths towards the border with Mexico. It’s obviously well travelled: the ground is worn bare, with smooth knuckles of rock poking through the dirt. As we walk we are joined by the boys we met on the road. They smile when they see us.

The path narrows until the bush abruptly ends, and we arrive at the border. Except there is no fence, no wall, no gates. No nothing--just a naked strip of grass, about 20 metres wide and closely mown. It stretches in both directions, as far as the eye can see. On the other side is Mexico. To get there, the boys have to dash across this open piece of ground, during which they will be exposed, clearly visible to the checkpoint below.

For a moment, we all stand there, Yong, me, the boys. They poke their heads out from the scrub, and peek down at the checkpoint, then bolt across, one after the other. When they reach the other side, they keep running for a few more metres, before slowing into a walk. We watch as they disappear deeper into the bush, deeper into the shadows. They never look back.

#El Salvador #MS-13 in El Salvador #Central American migrants #Central American gang violence

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