#I know this is explicitly stated in the very next chapter but that one also felt completely new to me lmao

[mosspapi]

(Name of the wind spoilers lmao)

Bruh how am I so dense that the first time I read the book, I missed the fact that Lanre's new name in his story becomes Heliax. Like. That's kinda a super fucking important thing to make note of. Up until this point I've remembered everything from my first read through but I feel like I completely missed that chapter the first time bcuz none of it was even remotely familiar. I think a lot of things r gonna make a lot more sense this time around now lmao

[dwaekkilinos]

savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me) ( series masterlist | next → )

Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.

It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.

Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.

Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.

The apocalypse had come.

You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.

Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.

And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.

That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.

You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.

From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.

At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.

Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.

It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.

It.

Armageddon.

The Rapture.

The fucking apocalypse.

It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.

The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.

The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.

The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.

That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.

You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.

But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.

By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.

But by eighteen, you knew better.

It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .

You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you’d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.

That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)

You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.

Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.

This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.

As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.

He didn’t believe.

No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.

The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.

That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.

That was what was told, and that was what was believed.

You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.

Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

— Revelation 6:1–2

That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.

While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.

As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.

Only by that time, it was too late.

Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.

And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.

The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.

Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.

By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.

Then . . . it all just stopped.

But your town continued to spread its lies.

The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.

They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.

Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.

But you knew better.

While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.

You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)

And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.

The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.

But you couldn't believe it.

Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.

Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.

Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.

He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.

Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.

War will come, she warned.

War will come.

But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.

And then . . . then he did.

The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.

The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.

War will come.

It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.

This was no man. This was War.

And it all became clear soon after.

While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.

The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.

The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.

That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.

Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.

(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)

Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.

War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.

From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.

But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.

There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.

Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.

The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.

And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.

(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)

While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.

The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.

That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.

It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.

The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.

It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.

It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.

When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

— Revelation 6:7–8

Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.

Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.

She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.

You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.

Now there was no more living, just surviving.

Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.

Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.

How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?

You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.

But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.

Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.

Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.

You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.

Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.

You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.

And then you looked at him.

Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.

Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had killed someone.

This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.

(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.

(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))

That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.

The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.

And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.

(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)

But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.

You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.

And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.

It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.

And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).

Survival became all that you knew after that.

Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.

The burden became yours to bear.

This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.

Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.

And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.

Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.

If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.

So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.

Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.

Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.

Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.

When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.

You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.

In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.

But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.

You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.

So you let yourself turn into a machine.

And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.

That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.

You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.

Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.

That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.

Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.

When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.

No, killed was too vague.

Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.

The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.

You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.

But you had that night.

And now you paid the consequences.

It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.

She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.

So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.

Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?

How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?

You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.

Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.

Were you no better than the dead to her?

You swallowed hard.

Had you become a monster?

“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.

But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.

You did what you had to do.

You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.

You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.

Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.

Kind had been rare back then. It still was.

And Felix stayed kind.

When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.

You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.

But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.

That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.

He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.

But you?

Well . . .

“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”

”You’re not."

“Lix."

“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”

Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

”She’s just a kid."

“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”

A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”

Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .

”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “

”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”

You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.

His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."

His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.

But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.

However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.

You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”

”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.

”Sleep, little bird."

He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.

But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

You're not too far gone.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.

A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?

But you already knew the answer.

Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .

And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.

His face was always there.

Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.

Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.

And you knew you had.

At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.

You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.

Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.

And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.

He would still be here if you hadn't—

"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.

You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.

It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.

She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.

But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.

You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.

Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .

. . . You’d still killed a man.

You’d actually taken a life.

(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.

It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And maybe you had been.

That would’ve been easier to fathom.

But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.

"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.

Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.

And you couldn’t blame them.

The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.

The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.

Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.

That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.

With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.

You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.

But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.

Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.

Had he felt like this, too?

Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?

Did he ever wonder if—

“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.

You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”

She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”

“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.

But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.

Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.

Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”

But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.

“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”

“Your father filled your head with lies.”

You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”

Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."

There were the tears now.

But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.

Twist the knife, and she did.

"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”

Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.

This was what you deserved.

Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.

But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.

Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”

She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”

Your mother remained silent.

And you knew her answer.

Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”

“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”

But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”

Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”

“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”

Once again, she remained silent.

But you knew the truth.

“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”

Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .

And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.

Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.

It happened too quickly for you to think.

Beat. Beat.

You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.

Beat.

Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.

And you knew what to do.

For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.

The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.

One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.

Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.

You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.

. . . You were getting worse.

Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”

But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.

And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.

The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.

Would they make the decision to put you down then?

Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.

If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.

But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.

Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.

According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.

So, you listened, but you did not believe.

The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.

Whatever.

(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.

Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.

He’d made sure there was nothing left.

Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.

Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.

Survival was all that mattered.

Everything else was fucked.

And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.

Survive long enough for them.

For your father.

For your sister.

For your mother.

For Felix.

For them.

By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)

But, just your luck, sleep never found you.

Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.

Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?

You didn’t want to see that day come.

It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.

With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.

You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.

Nothing was left.

Truly.

Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.

But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.

Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.

You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.

The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.

Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a horde.

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

You’d thought the undead didn’t horde unless . . .

The man.

Your eyes widened.

The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.

And his screams . . .

You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.

And . . . it was all your fault.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

Death was coming.

Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.

Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.

The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—

But then you saw it.

In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.

You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the horde up ahead.

Death was here. So close. Too close.

They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.

There was no way you could outrun the horde. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.

Fuck.

You wanted to scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.

“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”

You could only shake your head.

Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."

You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.

There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the horde without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.

Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.

There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.

You knew what that meant.

This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.

It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.

And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.

This was how you made things right.

You nodded at your thoughts.

Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.

Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.

This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.

So you sent one last glare at the horde up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.

Still: "Little bird," you whispered.

Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.

You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.

"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."

Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."

You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.

But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.

Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.

Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.

You knew this.

Felix did, too.

He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."

Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."

The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.

"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.

You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.

The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.

"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."

Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."

"You don't get to die."

"Neither do you."

"Then I guess we have a predicament."

Your eyes softened. "Lix."

His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."

And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.

He shook his head.

You swallowed hard.

The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.

You gripped his hand. "Protect them."

He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”

Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”

But it was. You both knew that.

Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”

“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.

But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.

You worked quickly. You had to. For them.

The quiet cries of the horde approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.

You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.

You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.

Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.

So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the horde to get near enough to strike.

You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.

It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.

Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.

The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.

Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.

And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.

Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.

Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.

Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.

Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.

You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.

Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.

You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.

All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.

Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.

You're not too far gone.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.

This was the only way to save them. The only way.

Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.

The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.

The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.

You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Fuck.

Had that been too loud?

Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.

You swallowed hard.

Death itself had seen you.

Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.

And end it you would.

You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.

Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.

And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.

There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.

“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.

With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.

And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.

The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.

But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the horde getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the horde, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.

This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.

You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.

It hit you then.

Beat.

This really was the end.

You couldn’t run.

Beat.

The horde was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.

But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.

Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.

It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.

What was he doing?

But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.

“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—

Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.

Beat.

Beat.

Be—

A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the horde following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—

Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the horde you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.

And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the horde was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.

Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.

And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.

As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.

And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.

What the fuck?

But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.

There it was, you realized.

Your punishment.

You were going to die.

And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.

The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.

There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.

In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—

And then . . . then the memories all faded in.

The warehouse. The man. The shots. The horde.

This was Death’s doing.

The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.

Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.

But . . . why were you still alive?

Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.

You were alive.

Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”

And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.

Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?

Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?

Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.

Him.

The man.

Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.

You clenched your jaw hard.

The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.

And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.

“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”

But you remained silent, watching.

"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”

You swallowed thickly.

There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.

"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”

And you hadn’t.

You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.

Had your mother been right about you?

Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?

The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.

"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”

You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?

Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?

Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.

And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.

Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.

(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)

And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.

Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that horde and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.

Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?

Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.

Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)

And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.

You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?

Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.

Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"

Why aren’t you fighting?

The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.

Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.

It was surely daylight by now.

Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.

By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.

So . . . where was your fight?

You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.

Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.

Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"

For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.

The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.

And you almost laughed.

Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.

It all felt a little unreal.

Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.

You swallowed hard. You’d brought that horde to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.

But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.

There it was.

This was the end you were promised.

Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.

On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.

"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.

His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”

But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?

"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.

His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."

Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.

This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.

So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?

Why—

"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"

You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.

His stare only unnerved you more.

Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.

Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."

The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”

That only unnerved you further.

Was this truly Death?

Surely he had killed before.

Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.

As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”

But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn’t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.

There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.

You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.

“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.

Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.

“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.

His brows twitched, taken back.

“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”

But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?

A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.

Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.

Then . . . you felt it.

A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.

You nearly gasped.

Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.

But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.

The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”

Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.

“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”

And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.

I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.

But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?

You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.

And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?

It all hit you then.

These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .

I won’t kill you.

But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.

These were good people. And you were their bad omen.

It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.

You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.

It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin

(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

[codenamesazanka]

My prediction on what was Scissors-kun's deal ended up being pretty correct: he was indeed abused - horrifically so, being tied up and locked away - and then abandoned by his family during the war because of his quirk. Except Horikoshi actually exceeded my expectations and revealed that it wasn't because of behavioral issues (not that it would've justified it! Never. but I was imagining a parallel to Toga), it was only because his quirk was a random mutation, and also his family sewn his mouth shut.

Because thing is. The set up for something like this was here all along. I predicted it based on things that were already happening in the story. Continued fear of 'abnormal' quirks; horrific domestic violence enacted due to this; Heroes never catching wind of this because this was from a family that weren't consider 'Villains', so this was Scissors-kun's normal. And this normal broke and the dark secret got revealed only because something extraordinary happened - the country collapsed. Scissors-kun family left him, so he was able to escape.

But... none of this is apparently going to be addressed. The happy ending is Scissors-kun being found and helped, instead of any widespread, far-reaching, systemic change that would prevent shit like this. No, 'but it's obviously going to be addressed off-screen' doesn't count. The story brought up on-page and explicitly that quirk discrimination is a thing, that abusive quirk counseling/treatment is a thing, that abuse and abandonment of children is a thing. I expect the solutions to be on-page and explicit as well, and not just 'if I reach out when it's not my business, then...!'

(Also. it is their fucking business. They're government employees. Their job is to save people and guarantee the welfare of all citizens. it is very much their business.)

I'm not upset that Scissors-kun isn't Shigaraki; never really expected that in the first place. Shigaraki died. Deku fucking failed. I've come to terms with it. I'm not upset that Shigaraki wasn't saved, but this kid was; not even in the meta-, story-, character-sense, because, fine, he's replacement goldfish Tenko, but I'll take the 'we'll do better next time', it's a good thing this kid gets saved, it's what Shigaraki would've wanted, it's what the League fought to destroy for. It's even good that The Old Lady has become a better person.

What baffles me is that this save occurs pretty much because of nothing except the purported 'What Deku Showed The World That Day (When He Killed A Man)'. This save isn't because Heroes and civilians have more awareness of victims. This save isn't because society is promising to stop quirk discrimination. This save isn't because Ochako learns of Toga's abusive parents and so sets out to tackle this issue of quirk-related domestic violence. This save isn't because Deku has lead a new movement to stop bystander inaction. (Moreover, about 'bystander inaction' - Scissors-kun lists 5 other people outside his immediate family of Dad/Mom/Sis who knew about him... and did nothing. His uncle, his aunt, his grandparents, his great-grandfather - if they didn't directly help sew Scissors-kun mouth shut, they still turned a blind eye and never alerted authorities. (Tenko explicitly states this as one of the factors that led to him lashing out, but I guess the story forgot about it long ago, so. Even with the memories sharing of Chapter 417 and 418, Deku never sees this.))

As I said above, none of the issues that lead to Scissors-kun being in the circumstances he was in has been addressed.

This save isn't because any random civilian has decided to help - because any rando can and should help! This isn't even because Old Lady came to the guilt-ridden conclusion herself to do better.

This save is because Old Lady, carrying the burden of guilt, watched Deku kill the kid she didn't save all those years ago (tho she doesn't know it) and is apparently inspired by this act of "I can't help but do something" to finally take action (as helpfully narrated by Hawks). It's not because civilians have done any deep thinking about the rot that permeates their culture; it's because Deku was a hard-working murderer on TV. There were dozens of other people on the street. Real change should've been a whole crowd of people seeing Scissors-kun and wanting to help - someone giving him a blanket or offering him shoes while another calls for an ambulance???

But whatever. I just want to state this: the first thing that truly saved Scissors-kun was Shigaraki's destruction. Without it, his family would've stayed in that house and kept him locked up. It's really only because of Shigaraki's destruction that Scissors-kun even got the opportunity to find freedom and get his hand held.

[jsprnt]

Americano PT. 15 | Jude Bellingham x Reader

What happens if two individuals who absolutely despise each other are forced to interact after unforeseen events occur?

A/N: hihi, just wanted to thank you all for the love for the 2 most recent chapters <33 I’m loving all messages and comments!! 💖 please enjoy this chapter and stay tuned for the last chapter tomorrow (around 20:30 CEST)🥹🤍

W/C: 3.385

part fourteen

"You know that you're allowed to be upset, right, Jude?" She asks, looking down at the tired-looking boy.

"I know, but it's disappointing.." Jude murmurs back, moving his head to look up at her. His head on her lap, as her hands delicately play with the soft, just-washed curls on his head.

It's a soothing and intimate touch, something they'd both discovered to create a calm and relaxing atmosphere.

"You can be disappointed. It's difficult feeling like you’re on top of the world one day, and the next you feel like shit."

y/n puffs out a breath, trying to reassure his thoughts and feelings with logical and rational reasoning.

Real Madrid had won the Super Cup final against their derby rivals Atletico Madrid only a week ago in Riyadh. Though, last night's loss against the exact same opponents for the Copa del Rey hadn't exactly gone the same way.

With the extra time and many yellow cards later, they eventually lost with two goals made by Atletico, throwing Real Madrid out of reach of the win in a very dramatic fashion.

It was a whirlwind of a week for Jude, and to him- all he needed was someone to help him sort his thoughts out.

"You can't change anything about the past, not even when you fret and ponder about it for years. You can only look forward and change what you think you can, think winning the league or even the Champions League, Jude…” She says, leaning back against the couch, warm fingertips hovering above his hairline.

"You sound like a motivational speaker.." He voices, chuckling while watching her recline on the couch.

"Well, what I'm saying is true. Like- when I thought you moving in would be the end of my life- it turned into- this.."

She points at him and back to herself, making a dramatic gesture.

"End of your life? That's harsh." He frowns, grasping her hand to prevent her from poking his eyes out.

"Well, then let's not remind you of the times I've wanted to punch you right across the face, wanting to wipe that smirk off your lips and-"

Her voice is cut off by his hand, it clamped over her mouth as only muffled noises escape from her lips.

"Should I feel threatened?" He questions, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, only to groan as she pokes her tongue through her lips. He removes his hand, wiping his wet hand on his trousers as he sits up from his position.

"No, I'm sure you also had hateful thoughts about me. I definitely cannot blame you.." She trails off, trying to recall anything pertaining to the topic.

"You were pretty annoying." He states, clicking his tongue. Jude fixes his position, making sure he's sitting comfortably.

"Annoying?"

She had expected the description and would definitely understand why, but why did it hurt a little bit?

Noticing the change of expression on her face, Jude grabs onto her hand, pressing a soft, tender kiss on her knuckles.

"-but in a good way!" He adds quickly, eyes raised in panic.

Of course, the words she'd just uttered were way harsher in comparison to his, though it being said explicitly and clearly for the first time since they'd met, it stung like a bitch- to y/n, at least.

"You would always say or do something that riled me up so badly. I remember when you first started interviewing me- and you'd switch from snarky comments off camera to acting like the sweetest, most kind person to me. I thought; 'Oh? So, this is how two-faced she can be?'."

"But, you'd also have moments where you'd confuse me so much." Jude looks up, leaning in to press multiple, back-to-back kisses on her temple.

"When?" She asks, eyes fluttering as she soaks up the loving, sweet gesture.

"Remember that night in- Naples? When you panicked about someone breaking into your hotel room?" Jude recalls, absentmindedly pulling her closer into his side, on the couch.

"Mhm, I remember- I was so embarrassed about it.. I thought I'd have to book it out of your room immediately before you'd start making fun of me.."

"I was not going to make fun of you. That's what you thought of me?"

"I didn't know! We were bickering like- every damn second up until that point."

"No, I was genuinely surprised at first, but when you left, I couldn't even sleep properly, and I didn’t even know why..”

"Well, what's the annoying part?"

She asks, watching Jude's fingers get entangled with hers, making her grin a little.

"You were annoying in a way- which I couldn't shake my thoughts away from you if something had happened that specific day back then. I couldn't put it into words, tried to rack my brain so many times, over and over.."

"You had this long-lasting presence, and the way you spoke and acted practically got ingrained into my memory for me to repeat every night. This definitely got worse when I moved in here.."

Making eye contact again, she nods in understanding, grasping the hem of his shirt to play with.

"You thought of me, every night?" She grins, smug look replacing her once confused and sad expression.

"I knew this would enlarge your ego.." Jude chuckles, placing another kiss on her cheekbone, before he's interrupted by a text message popping up on his phone.

"Who is it?" y/n asks, glancing up when Jude shows her the screen.

"It's my mum.." He simply says, eyes skimming over the lengthy message. After a minute of silence, he looks back at his curious girlfriend.

"She's just trying to comfort me like you have been. Asks if she can come over for tea.." He informs, hand reaching to wipe away a single fallen lash stuck on her cheek.

"Oh, that's sweet. Of course she can-.." y/n trails off, eyes darting away from the iPhone and onto her lap. Fingers starting to fidget with the loose threads on her used sweatpants.

Getting a comforting, reassuring text message from your own mother..

Something the young girl could not even dream of. Let alone speak to her own mother ever again, at least in this lifetime.

The thought makes her smile uncomfortably, though there's absolutely no positive emotion behind it, skin around her eyes crinkling in fake happiness.

"y/n?" Jude whispers, noticing the change in her demeanor and the tensing of her shoulders.

"Hm?" She hums back, her eyes darting up and locking with his brown ones.

"You okay?"

Jude is in love, not stupid.

Seeing his girlfriend's entire mood change, just at the mention of his mother isn't something he wants to just skim over.

There was absolutely nothing going on between her and his mother. In fact, after his parents had been informed of their oldest son's affection for her, they welcomed her into the family within a heartbeat.

It wasn't either of the two who told them, instead- y/n's understandably protective father had told them. This came after he'd talked to Jude privately, grilling him with questions only a father would make up- and of course the intentions question was asked, like they weren't just young people trying to figure out their lives.

In reality, her father had long approved of the idea of the two young adults having a relationship. The times he was home and present with them, he'd slowly noticed the way they had warmed up to each other.

Not to forget, months ago, his daughter had burst into his office- asking for him to handle something for her. Puzzled at his own daughter needing legal help for 'online defamation, because they think I’m dating that douche', he'd dropped everything to listen to her- only to end up laughing at the end of her dramatic and insulting (towards Jude, of course) speech.

It wasn't difficult, as an experienced adult, to guess where the young adults' relationship would go from there.

"y/n.." Jude calls out again, placing a hand on her shoulder, shaking slightly to snap her out of her thoughts when she doesn't reply.

"I'm just thinking.." She finally says, wanting to lie- but realizing that he is, in fact, her boyfriend now- it might be better in the long run, to be honest.

"About what?" His eyes flicker up, a warm hand pulling her in closer. Realizing the comfort or warmth she might need to open up and speak.

"I just feel sad.." The confession is quiet, looking down, she grasps onto the hem of her sweater. Trying to keep her emotions at bay, because this conversation was about comforting him, and not about trauma dumping on the already upset boy, she thought.

Jude blinks, looking over his girlfriend's defeated figure. The gears in his head twist and turn, trying to decipher what she meant with her words.

"Do you want to tell me why?" He asks, trailing a hand up, pinching her chin with his pointer finger and thumb, raising her head to make eye contact.

Her eyes glimmer with emotion when they lock with his chocolate brown ones, the corners of her mouth twitching as she tries to contain the tremble of her lips.

Though, it's insanely difficult, especially when multiple emotions are swirling around her mind, and the suppressing of the tears causes a sharp pain to pass through her temples.

She grunts softly, not being able to hold back anymore, the pressure in her head worsening.

Tears pool against her waterline, and she closes her eyes. Allowing a soft whimper to escape her lips, tension dropping from her shoulders, as y/n stops suppressing her emotions.

Jude's eyes widen, his breath hitching in surprise as he watches his new love practically crumble in front of him.

"Oh, baby.." Jude coos breathily, the soft, foreign term of endearment falling from his plump lips.

He moves his hands immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pulling her onto his lap.

y/n instantly presses her face against his shoulder, grasping onto the fabric of his shirt. Her tears darken the blue shirt, as Jude's hand rubs against her back in a tender manner.

"You're okay, honey.." He whispers, pressing multiple kisses along her temple and cheek, rubbing soft, soothing circles on her back.

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong, hm?" He soothes, his voice deeper than usual, offering sweet and reassuring words to the crying girl.

"I- don't even remember how her voice sounded or what her personality was like.." I whisper, raising my palms to harshly wipe my annoying tears away. They just kept pouring out of my eyes like the damn Niagara Falls..

"Look at me, love.." Jude whispers tenderly, grabbing my wrist to remove my hands from my face. I can't help but feel tingles down my spine at the word he refers to me with.

The Brum accent combined with his deep, raspy evening voice- melting my heart instantly. It distracts me from my breakdown for a single moment, and I shift my eyes back to his, just like he asks me to.

"Take a deep breath for me, yeah?" He says, pressing a kiss on the back of my hand.

I nod at his words, taking a single, deep breath, before releasing when he tells me to..

"Good- you're so good for me, baby.." He gives me a small, satisfied smile, kissing my cheek again. He moves his hands, pulling my head back onto his chest, running his hand down my back.

"This okay?" He asks, making me nod. I sigh again, nuzzling my face against his hard chest.

I had just spilled my entire heart out to the boy whom I had sworn to hate for the rest of my life, only a few weeks ago.

The topic wasn't something I had openly talked about since I was a teenager in my psychologist's office back in London. It hurt way too much to talk about with friends, and it felt like opening up a bigger wound when speaking to my own family about it.

I mean, it couldn't ever get easy- talking about losing your blood and flesh, let alone your own mother. In my case, the person who had gone through hours of labor and delivery- creating me from her own nutrients and energy.

There was absolutely no way I’d ever comfortably tell someone that my mother had passed away in a violent car crash.

An accident that had occurred only because little five-year-old me wanted my mom at my graduation to primary school.

I had gone through years and years of therapy, though, of course, to me nothing could actually take away the wound and grief it had caused a young me.

I couldn't sleep some nights, mind trying to remember anything about my mom. Since I had lost her so young, I could only recall her face from old photographs and home videos taken by my dad.

"Yeah.." I mutter, eyes closing as I try to ground myself. Taking in the beating of Jude's heart against my ear and his musky cologne.

"Need anything?"

"No, just you.."

I feel his chest vibrating as he chuckles, the sound reaching my ears and filling me with a warm and fuzzy feeling.

"I'm here, love. Take your time, and we'll wash up before my mum comes over.." I feel his hand against my back, caressing from my nape all the way to the small of my back.

I hum in understanding, eyes fluttering shut as I try to calm down, taking my surroundings in.

"Okay.."

'Meet me in the lobby'

'Security won't stop you'

'We have free time for a couple hours'

I stare at the incoming text messages, my eyes darting to the sender. Only to read Jude's contact name.

I sit up from my bed, slipping on the hotel slippers immediately, and walk over to the bathroom. Trying to fix my appearance before I realize I don't know what I'm getting ready for.

I snatch my phone from the bathroom sink, sending a quick message back to Jude. I wait for a couple seconds, busy with applying mascara, until I hear a notification sound.

'For some dessert, love'

'Dress casual, I'm in sweats and a jacket'

'I don't want to look like a fool next to you'

I chuckle at the reply, nodding as if he can see me before sending a quick message back.

I eventually make my way down to the lobby, looking around and trying to be as discreet as possible. Hoping other staff members and players didn't think of going down as well.

So far, the only people who had figured us out were Luis and Lina. I mean, I couldn't exactly keep it that much of a secret after they'd sneaked a glance at my home screen when I had left to print something.

They had been nosy after seeing someone text me, and when they read that it was Jude- I could've sworn they died and came back to life in a span of two minutes.

I look around quickly when I step out of the elevator, finally catching a familiar black puffer jacket. I grin to myself, making a beeline towards him, and whispering a small 'boo!' when I touch his shoulder from behind.

"Hey! Shhh.." His eyes enlarge comically, and I feel him grab onto my hands almost instantly.

"I'm quiet.." I whisper, giving him a toothy smile as he drags me out of the hotel lobby, out onto the streets of Valencia.

I allow Jude to walk in front of me, our hands intertwined, as he suddenly stops in a less busy area of the street.

I raise my brows as he turns around, watching a smile form on his handsome face.

"Hi?" I begin, pulling a confused face.

"Hi.." He replies, chuckling softly, before he pulls me into a warm embrace. His breath hitting my neck as he plants a kiss on my lips and cheek.

"I missed you." Jude says, pulling back to look at me, while his arms encircle my waist, keeping me warm.

"Well, you could have seen me a couple hours ago, after the match- but you stormed into the changing room after you got that red card.."

I sigh, recalling the absolute shitshow of a match against Valencia a couple hours ago. The referee couldn't do his fucking job, there were multiple VAR checks, and the blowing of the final whistle- resulted in the disallowance of the winning goal, scored by Jude. Eventually, he got red-carded for dissent.

Nothing surprising, actually..

I watch a guilty expression form on his face, forehead wrinkles showing as he frowns at me.

"Well, I'm sorry about that- did I scare you?"

"No? Why would it scare me? I wanted to punch that referee too.." I make multiple punching movements, hitting Jude on his chest once.

"Hey, hey- don't get violent, little Miss, you can't use physical violence here.."

I chuckle at his change of voice, dropping my hands to my sides, and grabbing his hand.

"Sorry, sir. Any reason you've called me down here?" I tease, watching him smile at me, before he squeezes my hand affectionately.

"Let's get some ice cream. I saw a decent looking place on Google Maps.."

"Oh, what flavors do they have?" I ask, mouth watering at the thought of having good-quality ice cream.

For me, it didn't matter the weather. Ice cream could be consumed any time of year, as long as I craved it.

Jude tugs at my hand, indicating he wants us to start walking to the ice parlor he'd seen. I follow him mindlessly, paying more attention to his words than to where we're going.

"Umh, they have 'chocolate' and 'fresa' and, of course, 'vainilla'.."

I laugh at his sudden use of Spanish, quirking my brow up as he starts naming the basic ice cream flavors one by one.

"Are you just trying to show off how much you've improved your Spanish skills?" A huge smile tugs at my lips, my eyes roaming over his proud, cocky expression.

"No, just slipped out of my mouth. I must be getting the hang of it.."

"Sure, Mister. Now give me the directions in Spanish.."

I tease, trying to challenge him, but chuckle when he shakes his head violently.

"It's just straight this way.."

I scoff, rolling my eyes at his bad excuse.

Watching a small smile form on his lips.

"Sure, let's just go straight ahead then.."

The couple’s very spontaneous ice cream date is ended by the both of them chugging a bottle of water. The once very craved cold and creamy dessert now regretted by how big and sweet their portions were.

"That's a cute bicycle.." y/n mutters, not paying attention to where she's walking. Instead, Jude is holding her hand and looking out while they walk back to their hotel.

"Do you know how to ride a bicycle?" She asks Jude, looking up at the focused boy, busy navigating their way back.

"Of course I can. My dad taught me before I showed interest in football.."

"Mhm, that must've been fun.." She mumbles, fixing her jacket.

While the couple is intrigued by the small, new facts they were learning about each other, they don't notice the very few people walking past them in the streets.

Most of the pedestrians walk in a hurry, minding their own business, on their phone, or listening to music- trying to get home before it gets too dark outside.

Though, sadly, what they also don't notice is, the flash of a camera- directed right at them. Not knowing the predicament that would follow if they were sold off and posted on the internet.

The couple is happy in their own bubble, their hands warm from holding hands, unlike their noses, which froze up in the cold wind.

Just like other pedestrians trying to get back to their hotel, wanting to go unnoticed and undisturbed.

[superhaught]

To Be Another Notch... (Chapter Two)

Pairing: Leighton Murray x Reader

Warnings: sick reader, reference to the chapter 1 smut

Word Count: 1100, Part 2/?

Part 1

Just a little follow up to "To Be Another Notch in Your Bedpost." Might keep it going, might not. I don't really have any specific ideas for where this one could go, though!

Also, Anonymous Asked: All I can think about now is like what if Leighton x reader are snowed in at Essex and the reader is deliriously ill and Leighton goes into protector mode and her roommates don’t know how to react since they’ve never seen this side of her with anyone before

I don't know if I did a super excellent job addressing this ask but I hope y'all like it! I'm in a bit of a writer's block rn so I'm doing me best. <3

Reader wakes up very sick and Leighton takes care of her. (Reader is explicitly she/her in this one).

You had slept over with Leighton after your night together. You awoke, bundled warmly in her deluxe comforter.

Well, technically, you didn’t wake up of your own accord. Leighton jostled you in an attempt to wake you and it wasn’t until she had to begin shouting your name that you actually came to. And furthermore, you weren’t exactly comfortably warm. You felt freezing cold but your skin was covered in sweat and you were approaching a fever of 102 degrees Fahrenheit. 

To make matters even worse, Essex had been the victim of a massive snowstorm overnight. Leighton had only been trying to gently wake you to let you know that classes had been canceled and you were welcome to stay, but then she felt how your skin was burning.

You opened your eyes blearily and were met with Leighton’s panicked expression and the back of her hand pressed against your forehead. 

“Oh my god, you’re burning up.”

“What? Like the Jonas Brothers?” 

“Jesus Christ, no! Not like the Jonas Brothers! You have a fever.” 

“Ohhh… that makes more sense.” You coughed painfully and Leighton quickly handed you a bottle of water from her mini fridge. 

“I will be right back, Stay. Here.” Leighton ordered before rushing out of the room.

You let your head collapse into the pillow and you were asleep again before you even knew it. An unknown amount of time later, Leighton came back into the room wearing a N95 mask, which she removed once the door was closed. Her arms were full of cold and flu supplies that she certainly could not have gone out and purchased due to the storm. 

Leighton sat everything down next to the bed and started going through the pile, setting a fresh box of tissues with lotion next to you along with a bottle of electrolyte drink. Then, she sifted through the variety of medications and ultimately decided that just some straight up tylenol and cough medicine would be best. 

Leighton was waking you up again and she helped you sit up while you took the medicines and drank a bunch of the electrolyte solution.

“Kimberly’s mom sent her all of this medicine and first aid stuff, it was honestly really impressive. My mom just sent me a Louis Vuitton weekender bag.”

You chuckled lightly, even though it hurt a little to do so, then spoke in a scratchy voice, “both things have their uses.”

Leighton felt your forehead again and then made you lie back down, “I’m quarantining you in here for now, at least until the storm clears. I’ll take care of you here.”

“You’re gonna get sick…” you pointed out.

“Then, you’ll take care of me.”

You furrowed your brows, “well, of course I will, but are you sure? I can just go home,” you made an attempt to sit up but Leighton pushed you right back down.

“Absolutely not. You’re in no state to walk across campus even if it wasn’t a blizzard outside. You’re staying here. End of discussion.”

“But I don’t-”

“Shut up, would you? You’re making me tired just looking at you,” she teased. 

Leighton surprised you, then. She was no longer feeling the fever on your forehead for sheer monitoring purposes, but just softly caressing her thumb over your skin and wiping your sweaty hair aside as she did so. It was comforting. 

You smiled, “you’re really sweet, thank you.”

Leighton leaned down and kissed your forehead gently and stayed by your side until you were too tired to keep your eyes open any longer and you fell asleep again. 

Leighton put her mask back on to protect her roommates from your germs as best as she could then went out into the main area of the suite to let you sleep in peace. 

Leighton sat down on the plaid couch in their common room and exhaled a deep breath. She had never really seen herself as a caretaker type, but for some reason, it had come naturally to her when she saw how sick you were.

Bela decided to go hang out in Jocelyn’s room to gossip the snow day away (with the help of cinnamon whiskey and apple cider… but mostly cinnamon whiskey), while Kimberly and Whitney hunkered down in their room. 

Leighton scrolled mindlessly through her phone when Whitney came out to grab some food from the shared fridge.

“How’s your guest doing?” Whitney asked. 

“Okay, I think.” Leighton answered simply. 

“Is this someone we’ve met before?”

“No,” Leighton said, “she’s new as of last night…”

“Wow. You must be really into her, then.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you let her sleep over and now you’re taking care of her while she’s sick? The Leighton Murray of a few weeks ago would never, storm or no storm…” Whitney smiled at the blonde and sat down on the couch opposite her. 

Leighton’s cheeks flushed, “I don’t know… she’s cute. Really cute. And being around her has been really easy so far. Plus…”

Whitney raised an eyebrow, “plus…?”

Leighton rolled her eyes and then lowered her voice to a near-whisper, “Plus… she made me come like four times last night… maybe more. I honestly lost count.”

“Oh. My. God.” 

“I know.”

“That’s just not fair.”

Leighton smirked and shrugged. 

“So you’re taking care of her because the sex was amazing?” Whitney clarified. 

“No, not just that. Maybe I do really like her. But like…” Leighton groaned, “I’m so fucking stressed about Tatum and Alicia still… Do I really want to jump right into another relationship?” 

Now, Whitney shrugged, “do what makes your heart happy, Leight. If you like her, I say go for it. You never know when someone might be your person.”

Leighton looked over her shoulder at her bedroom door, “huh… yeah, maybe you’re right. I’m gonna go check on her.”

Leighton stood up and Whitney smiled, “I also think you should do whatever you can to bring this nurturing side of you out more often. It’s nice.”

Leighton flashed a glare in Whitney’s direction, “yeah yeah, whatever.”

The blonde slipped back into her room and took a moment to watch you before she climbed into the bed beside you and draped her arm over you. 

You were fast asleep and didn’t feel her join you in the bed, but you unconsciously shifted and hugged her arms close to you. 

Snow continued to drench the campus and it seemed to muffle all sound.

Leighton fell asleep holding you, lulled only by the steady rise and fall of your breathing.

[frozenartscapes]

Everyone’s talking about that P.O.W. line from the most recent chapter so I’m going to throw in my own (maybe crazy) theory:

It’s not about Anya’s parents. It’s about Yor’s.

Ok, hear me out: based on everyone’s ages, I would guess this takes place either just before the adults in the main story were born, or were very little. This flashback storyline seems to be taking place near the start of the war, however we shouldn’t assume that the rumoured experimentation wasn’t happening before the war started, either. So what if this experimentation wasn’t about getting a telepath, but rather a super soldier?

We know Yor lived in East Neilsberg but I don’t believe it’s been explicitly stated that her family is from there. Her mother was likely “from the South” due to her using a customary ingredient from that area in a recipe but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s from Southern Ostania. She could have come from the southern border region in Ostania/Westalis. On top of that, if either one or both parents weren’t from Ostania, it may explain why she has (supposedly) no other extended family within Ostania who could have helped her raise Yuri. No aunts or uncles, grandparents, cousins… Not even family friends or third cousins once removed. Have they all died due to the war/sickness/etc. or do they just not live in the country?

So, what if either both parents or at least just her mother were taken in as prisoners of war (either from being soldiers for Westalis or maybe even civilians from a border town swept away in the chaos). The experiments were to try and gain a Winter Soldier-esque weapon of war, and then preferably more of them to create an army. The experiments were extreme and killed most of the test subjects but Yor’s mother survived. And what if it was because she was pregnant?

She gave birth to a beautiful little girl, and then thanks to what the bastards had done to her and her motherly instincts being turned up to eleven, she breaks out with her child before they could determine if the experiments had any effect on the baby. Yor’s parents then escape to a quiet corner in the southeast of Ostania, believing it to be too risky to try to get back to Westalis. They raise their little girl with kindness and love, trying as hard as they could to give her a life free from the horrors they faced themselves. Eventually, they have a second child and all seems well. Both of their children are bright and happy and strong… Perhaps a little too strong in the case of the daughter. Even their son is more resilient than most kids. But their abilities aren’t the things that would make them the weapons those researchers wanted: it was who they were as people. And Yor is such a compassionate, innocent little girl despite her ability to bend inch-thick metal at the age of seven. And Yuri is so passionate and loving despite his ability to bounce back so quickly from broken bones.

But then they’re discovered. The parents do what they must to protect their children, and it works…but they don’t come home that night. Or the next night. Or the next.

Yor realizes what must have happened - that her parents had died while they were out running errands - and it left her in charge of the household. (And to go deeper: because their parents were trying to hide from the Ostanian government, they didn’t carry accurate identification so in the event something like this happened, officials wouldn’t be led back to their children. This is why no one discovered that there were two now-orphaned young children living alone and either forced them into a relative’s custody or an orphanage.)

And from there, we get to what we do know: Yor struggled to take care of Yuri until she was discovered by Garden. Her natural strength came in handy (but I also maintain that Shopkeeper also looks for specific personalities as well, so Yor’s unwavering bravery and her deep capacity for empathy and kindness also were key) and she was trained up to be on of the best assassins in Ostania. Garden would have done a great job in ensuring her super strength remained hidden by training her to control it better. It also would have provided the necessary cover and support to keep her and Yuri from falling into suspicion from the government.

Due to their desire to protect their children, Yor’s parents never talked about what happened to them. As far as she and Yuri are concerned, they were born in Ostania and are citizens of Ostania. (And technically that is the case for them both, although Yor’s birth certificate was forged since the scientists in the lab didn’t care enough about a baby that may not even live for very long to create one.) How they find any of this out, I’m not sure, but it opens up some interesting plot beats.

Yor would find out her strength really is unnatural, and that she’s technically a human test subject (but that would also further deepen her connection with Anya, and maybe would mean Anya would be more willing to open up to Yor if she hasn’t already). Yuri would discover that the country he’s been sacrificing so much for has not only tortured and experimented on his parents (and sister) but also is the reason they were orphaned (and all the hardships that came with that). Maybe there’s a chance then that one or both parents actually survived, and are just waiting for another conflict to be trotted out as the weapons that they are. Or there are relatives in Westalis who are more than thrilled to be reunited with their lost family.

(And this would work logically for the type of experiments these shady labs were doing: during wartime and the build up to it they would focus on things that would put them ahead of their enemy from a weapons standpoint. Focusing on boosting their armies’ capacities would be the priority at the start of the war. But toward the end, and then going into the Cold War, they would shift to intelligence-based research. Anya’s telepathy and Bond’s future sight would be more beneficial in a war of intelligence than an actual war, hence the shift toward that around the time that Anya was born. And I know Code: White isn’t technically canon but there’s a particular character in that movie that further suggests that Ostania was trying very hard to turn people into weapons.)

So yeah, that’s my theory (this became a much longer post than I first thought it would be).

[freyadragonlord]

Was Chuuya chosen for Project Arahabaki because of N’s personal grudge? A Stormbringer theory

One thing I find very interesting about Stormbringer is that there are a lot of elements in the novel that are left ambiguous, or that are only mentioned briefly, but if you start putting them together you can draw a possibly really interesting picture.

And my favourite interpretation for that picture has to do with the reason why Chuuya, specifically, was chosen for that experiment, and how it is very plausible it wasn’t a random pick.

For this theory, I am going to work on the assumption that Chuuya is the original and not the clone (this is after all heavily implied in the epilogue), but even if he wasn’t, the existence of the original human child that was cloned was also confirmed in the epilogue, so this would be applicable to him instead.

Let’s start with this thought:

Why, in a country where the War has left countless orphans, would the military pick one of the only characters confirmed to have parents in all of BSD?

They could have grabbed any random kid from the streets or an orphanage, after all. We know for a fact that the Director of Atsushi’s orphanage was quite happy to lend kids to random guys who wanted to experiment on them. It would have been easy.

Instead, they picked Chuuya. Wasn’t that risky, especially since we know that both of his parents were quite powerful and influential?

It’s an odd choice.

Let’s look at some possible clues that are explicitly stated in the text:

The picture that the Flags give to Chuuya in the first chapter, the one with him as a child next to N, was found when they were investigating Chuuya’s pre-experiment life. The photo is taken at a beach, near an old farming village that is now abandoned, and in a town nearby Doc found the medical records proving Chuuya’s human existence before he was taken by the government.

In the epilogue, we learn that Chuuya’s father is a now a simple doctor, but he was once in the military, and “not someone who could be taken lightly”.

The first fact is interesting enough on its own. If the photo was taken in the village where Chuuya was born, why is N there? Did he stop to take it on his way out from the kidnapping, as a fun memento? That doesn’t seem very likely.

And if we then consider the fact that Chuuya’s father was a military officer with medical background, just like N, a natural conclusion would be that N and Chuuya’s father were colleagues.

No, more than colleagues.

Would you invite a random colleague to your home and let your 5 years old kid take a picture with him?

They were probably friends.

But how do you end up performing horrible experiments on your friend’s child?

The novel tells us nothing about the circumstances of that kidnapping; we only know that as far as the world knows, the child has passed away. Maybe Chuuya got sick or injured, had to be taken to a hospital where it would be easy for a government agent to snatch him. Maybe he got lost near the sea, and believed to have drowned. Maybe there was an airstrike from a foreign country, there was a war going on…

We will never know the details. But N was not quite sane after all, he claims to be solely dedicated to his science, so it is possible that he just saw the opportunity and took it, no logical reasoning needed.

However, I don’t believe N to be as emotionally detached as he wants to appear.

Insane, sure, you have to be to do the things he did, but he’s also extremely prideful. He lied about his own work to make it look so he created Chuuya’s body and mind, and then he gave Chuuya his own last name, signing his “scientific masterpiece”.

He also waited for the perfect opportunity to take revenge on Verlaine for killing his brother, even though that resulted in his own death.

And this is why my theory is that he chose Chuuya as his lab rat out of some grudge against his friend.

What that grudge would be, we can only speculate. Maybe it was envy for his colleague’s achievements, maybe something else entirely, there’s a lot of room to make up our own headcanons and interpretation.

(There is another possible hypothesis, which is that Chuuya’s parents were equally insane and they willingly gave their own kid to the government to be used as a weapon for the War. There’s however no hint of this madness in the brief scene that we see them, so it’s up to each of us to imagine if this is a plausible interpretation or not)

Anyways, that’s my thoughts on this subject, let me know what you think if you want!

I believe that many things in Stormbringer were left vague on purpose, but that’s why it is fun to try and look at it and come up with our own theories.

[ranticore]

Chapter 2 - To Be Human

for tdov i'll post my most trans coded character, more trans than any of the others tbh. obviously it's ishmael

---

Forward by the author | Chapter 1

In a bright white room with a single large round window, a young Ishmael sits on a bed. The edge of a rock ridge curves across the view beyond the window. Ishmael looks out through the window at the sheer sides, one hand pressed to the glass so that the light diffuses red through his skin. He is twelve years old and wears a shapeless blue and green garment that does not fit him, pinching tight around his neck but loose across his shoulders. A sipho nymph flies past the window and he turns to follow it.

Voice of Maris: What was that? Did you see it?

Ishmael: Not really. Too fast.

Maris: That was one of those – what are the zoologists calling them again? It’s a different name every time I hear it.

Ishmael: Exosiphonid.

Maris: I think they’re scary. Like giant dragonflies.

Ishmael: Did Surwan see it?

Maris: Who’s Surwan?

Ishmael: This girl in the biology class. She wanted to see an exosiphonid.

Maris: I didn’t know you were in the biology class. Was it good?

Throughout the video, Ishmael does not make eye contact with Maris or the recording device. He appears to hide behind a curtain of hair and hunch in on himself while he is not looking out through the window.

Ishmael: Dan said I could join next semester. I was waiting outside.

Maris: And eavesdropping?

Maris: I think it’s admirable to want to learn. What do you want to learn about? Is there anything that interests you? I’m no biologist, really.

Ishmael: Surwan likes the flying ones, like siphos. Callum wants to learn about leviathans.

Maris: That sounds exciting. Would you like to learn about leviathans too?

Ishmael: Lee doesn’t think they’re real. He said the betas wouldn’t get made if there were monsters in the water.

Maris: I don’t think Lee is a trustworthy source on that, if you want my opinion. Would you like to find out the truth? Imagine if you were the first to see a leviathan, they might name it after you.

——

The video transcribed above is a very typical example of Maris’s early sessions with Ishmael. He appears to resist all of her attempts to get him to submit an original thought, and repeatedly refers to the Human children instead, those who are undergoing a structured education about the zoology of Siren.

Maris’s notes echo my own understanding – that Ishmael struggled to articulate anything beyond a constant wish to be included with the other children, to the point of eavesdropping on classes he was not allowed to attend.

His passing curiosity about the wildlife around the settlement served only as a means to connect with the other children. And he was repeatedly shunned for these attempts, as Callum’s diary later noted. Those children whose likes and ambitions he carefully memorised did not think of him the way he thought of them. In fact, as far as I can tell, they did not think of him at all, because he was not a peer in any real sense.

This video also acknowledges the existence of the beta generation of Sirenians, who largely resembled modern phocids, though smaller and with shorter tails. It is important to state that although modern phocids descend from this beta generation, they do not descend from Ishmael. In fact, nobody descends from Ishmael, despite legends and myths to the contrary. This was stated explicitly several times by both Ishmael as an adult and Dan Loris, but made clear to Ishmael by Maris during these sessions.

“The other children are learning about how to make babies,” Ishmael announced at a session one day. “Dan wouldn’t let me stay. He never lets me stay.”

“You don’t need to know any of that,” Maris said. “You’re different to the other kids, remember? You don’t have a body that makes babies. Honestly, that’s a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. Can we swap?”

Her attempts at reassuring him seemed to fall on deaf ears, because reminders of his differences were often poorly received by Ishmael, or ignored. He paused to think about what she said, wondering how she could envy him when all he wanted in the world was to be like her.

“How do I get one?” he asked.

“A baby?”

“A body that makes them. I asked Dan and he said the betas can do it.”

“Well, yes,” Maris said, now wondering exactly how much it was appropriate to delve into he topic. “You don’t want to be like a beta, though, do you?”

Ishmael visibly shuddered. “No! But I want to be like Callum, can Dan do that? I’m getting better at being upright, so maybe if I practice more I can change.”

Thwarting Ishmael’s one desire was the absolute fact that his genetics were set in stone, and he could not be retroactively made fully Human. These sessions reveal a seam of anxiety, too, over the beta generation. At the time there were twenty of them, living in a separate location where they had access to a test pool.

Repeatedly, during the sessions with Maris, Ishmael brings them up as a potential bad ending for him, the inverse of his great desire to become like the other Humans. Those beta phocids were less Humanoid than Ishmael himself was. He believed that by mimicking the Human children he could become more similar to them, but the opposite could also be true, and the wrong actions might cause him to degenerate into a beta phocid.

Unfortunately for him, his efforts at being ‘upright’ did not result in any permanent bipedalism. When he was fourteen, his unpredictable growth had shifted his proportions away from the more Humanlike ratio he’d been born with. He was finding it more difficult to stand up straight, instead adopting a hunched and arched posture which still left him standing taller than the children of his age whose attention he coveted. The onset of puberty and these shifts in his body were tortuous, and it was a time that lasted until his mid-thirties when he finally reached his adult size and proportions.

But there was an improvement noted by both Dan Loris and Maris – despite repeatedly displaying signs of distress and depression in his sessions with her, he was no longer wordlessly violent, and did not give himself to his rages anymore.

Maris had provided him with the one thing he needed at the time – a safe person to talk to, someone who asked him how he was feeling without taking it as some scientific data point. She reported it all to Dan Loris, of course, but did not tell Ishmael that. He believed that she was his only safe harbour in the entire world.

Maris, in her own notes, says pretty much the same. And she was fond of him, too, revealing a genuine affection towards him alongside a deep abiding worry that she was not doing enough to ease his distress, and that she could have done more. She admits that she was not a trained psychologist, just someone in the settlement who had spare time and some textbooks. Her actual job was as a water quality specialist and she was acutely conscious that she had not the qualifications nor educational background necessary to help Ishmael properly. The settlement had a number of psychologists but they were not associated with the lab and did not volunteer their time.

To pre-empt the same problems with tantrums arising in the beta phocids, Maris was also supposed to spend some time with them, too. But she discovered that, with the exception of one, they were actually rather well-adjusted compared to Ishmael, likely as a result of their group all living together and being able to form a small close-knit community. Ishmael was deprived of this.

And, most importantly, the beta phocids could see themselves reflected in their community and use their bonds as a lens to make sense of themselves. Ishmael lacked this factor, and had no reflections or counterparts that he could use to understand himself. He was isolated by being unique, and by his inability to see the phocids as anything other than strange creatures he was embarrassed to somewhat resemble.

But it’s also patently clear that Maris, and Dan Loris and the other Precursors Ishmael was in contact with didn’t do much to raise Ishmael’s opinion of the beta phocids, as evidenced by the transcript above. Perhaps if they’d thought to assuage his fears by treating the beta phocids as people worthy of dignity and understanding, he might not have feared becoming like them.

The beta phocids, for their part, were born in a similar manner to Ishmael – the same deep dream, the same delayed birth, though their bodies were ten years old by the time they emerged from their dream and took their first breaths. Ishmael had been subject to numerous digestive trials measuring the suitability of his body for life on Siren. It was found that he was somewhat lacking in the production of a digestive chemical called an enzyme which would have allowed him to better deal with the high concentrations of silica present in Siren organisms.

He could eat and digest local plants and animals, but sometimes showed signs of digestive upset. Taking this information, Dan Loris was able to tweak his beta phocids before they were born, cloning and increasing the number of cells in their bodies which could produce the appropriate enzyme. He also took samples of Ishmael’s gut microbiome, which had taken years to properly develop, and implanted those samples within the digestive tracts of the beta phocids.

They were born as a group, though not all at once, allowing for correct monitoring of the newborns during the most tenuous periods. One suffered from the most common cause of death due to delayed birth; they simply never woke up, having rejected the dream at some point over the past several years. They were removed from the amniotic chamber where they passed on, a ten year stillbirth. We might remember the legacy of ‘Ishmael’, our Ishmael who was first born on Siren, but I feel it is only right to remember ‘Charity’, the first Sirenian to die here. They were given then to the assistants of Dan Loris who performed a post mortem examination.

The others suffered no more from the effects of delayed birth than Ishmael himself did. Although their bodies were more divergent from Precursor Humans than Ishmael’s was, at the time of his birth, and the discrepancies between their dream selves and their true selves must have been more jarring, this was offset somewhat by the communal nature of their upbringing. As soon as one was deemed fully awake, aware, and of sufficient health, they were placed in the boarding chamber with the other phocids and an assigned nursery worker. The birthing process took the better part of a year, so that the last born of the delayed-birth phocids was one year ‘younger’ than the rest, despite all technically being the same age.

Cherta, who gave their name to the wandering moon, was the fifth born beta phocid. There is very little to distinguish Cherta from the rest of the group, at this early stage, but I have on file their original description - “‘Cherta’, named for a sponsor of the project who donated three million nua*. Unisex ‘phocid’ of the Beta generation. Born age 10 years and 5 months, in [Year 3]. Melanistic colouring was chosen as protection against solar radiation, but it is expressed in heterogenous patches with a strong dorsal stripe. Length 5’1 nose to tailtip at time of birth and weight 54kg. Unusually violent birth, needed sedation.” In fact, Cherta assaulted Dan Loris’s assistants as they were born, reacting to the event as though it were an invasion of the bedroom of their dream. It was by all accounts an auspicious start compared to the others, and perhaps an indication that Cherta’s experience with the deep dream was not standard.

Cherta had fallen victim to another rare phenomenon of the incubator, referred to by Dan Loris as ‘dream rot’. This occurrence is a result of differences in the receiving brain, rather than the dream machine itself. The brain begins to understand, in some form, that what it is witnessing is not reality, and the structure of the dream begins to unravel.

At the time of Cherta’s delayed birth, the dream had been in the early stages of this process. If allowed to continue for too long, permanent damage to the psyche’s ability to judge reality is the result. Cherta would be haunted by this for the remainder of their life, but it was not severe enough to significantly alter their treatment compared to the other beta phocids.

The violence of their birth began to circulate in anecdotal form, eventually reaching the ears of Ishmael. He was curious – in fact, it was the first time he showed open curiosity about anything other than the opinion of a Human child. He asked Maris if she was going to speak to Cherta too, and she told him that she had spoken to all of the beta phocids, and had given Cherta in particular some extra guidance.

He did not take it well. The realisation that Maris’s time was not solely devoted to his needs was a source of distress, and likely another painful forced grouping with the phocids he feared. He would not participate in Maris’s sessions as he had before, and appeared afterwards to despise Cherta in a way that seemed quite targeted and personal.

Maris was forced to lie – she told Ishmael that she also spoke to the Human children, thus drawing him back under the umbrella of Humankind. In the following sessions, Ishmael revealed that he had greater knowledge of the beta phocids—and Cherta in particular—than anyone had previously guessed.

“Why do they look like that?” Ishmael asked. “They don’t stand up. They’re like animals.”

“They’re adapted to move in the water, like you,” Maris said. Her voice sounded nervous. “This means they had to have short arms and long, streamlined bodies. Like an otter. They’re very graceful in the water.” She had begun to introduce a less dismissive attitude towards the phocids, even praising them at times. Ishmael would tense every time she did.

“I don’t swim,” Ishmael said.

“Well, you’re not here to swim,” Maris said. “You have other things to teach us, so Dan didn’t wanna risk you in the pool.”

Ishmael was quiet for a long time. He rarely changed his facial expression, to the point that Maris often noted that she wondered if he heard her at all, or if his facial muscles had not developed properly.

“I saw Cherta playing with the floating ball at the bottom of the pool. In the water.” Ishmael sounded somewhat disdainful. “Like a child.”

“You’re all the same age,” Maris reminded him. “And I think you’re a child too. What’s wrong with having fun in the pool? Are you jealous?” She was fascinated by Ishmael’s sudden willingness to offer his opinion, particularly as discussion of the Human children never provoked this in him.

But Ishmael didn’t answer that one. At that point, he did not want to admit to any jealousy, and likely did not consciously recognise the feeling as such. Instead, he felt annoyance - he had to spend time in the lab doing work with Dan Loris, providing test feedback, having his organs scanned, letting himself be pawed all over by technicians who did not particularly care for him, only for what data he could provide. He did not endear himself to them, his quiet and obtuse personality proving difficult to grow fond of. But he still knew that it was work, he was producing data, and the phocids were just playing around in a pool all day, as far as he could tell. He was filled with righteous indignation at their laziness, at how easy their lives were, and wished that they knew what it was like to be him, so that they might stop looking so happy any time he peered in through the test pool windows.

I have recovered video footage of this behaviour, too. At odd hours of the day, with no real schedule, Ishmael would approach those windows. They were set in the side of the corridor outside the lab, affording an underwater view to onlookers. Access to the aboveground phocid enclosure was limited, so Ishmael only had the windows. He would walk there—painstakingly upright, though often with a hand on the wall to help support what was increasingly a difficult posture—and then sit on his tail and watch. The beta phocids spent most of their time in the water, as one might imagine. Ishmael would later learn that their lives were not as blissfully relaxing as he first thought, but it is true that they spent a lot of time playing in the pool, as teenagers will do. And he would watch them, until he heard an approaching Human, and quickly retreat.

The windows did not allow the phocids to look out. Cherta was unaware that they were the target of Ishmael’s most intense scrutiny. Despite a somewhat disturbing, moth-eaten childhood dream, Cherta was, on the surface, as lively as the rest of the phocids. They weren’t exactly easygoing, though, preferring to impress upon the others the importance of following rules, and of doing things the right way.

What Ishmael did not realise was that the phocids, as they swam together, built jigsaws and played card games underwater, were providing data too. They showed Dan Loris how their body plan could deal with the aquatic environment as easily as a Human could walk around on land. And so, when Ishmael and the phocids were fifteen, Dan Loris began to build his gamma generation of genetically engineered Humans, those who would be born on Siren without the use of a deep dream, and who could be introduced to the world outside.

Long days and nights spent in the lab occupied almost all of Dan Loris’s time, and his child Callum had nowhere to go after his classes but the lab itself. And with Ishmael and Callum once again forced into close proximity to one another, Ishmael would soon learn one of the most valuable lessons of his childhood.

*’nua’ is a form of currency

[genericpuff]

currently making my way through taking notes of every time persephone has been seen in the presence of food. so far i’m up to chapter 30, and she has:

- been gifted a box of apology donuts by eros in episode 12. artemis eats at least two of them (even though the apology was meant for persephone!) while persephone’s mostly just there to be unintentionally sexy without knowing it. as far as we know she doesn’t eat any of them

- she goes into the kitchen to prepare dinner for herself, artemis, hermes, and apollo in episode 22. after being left alone for about 2 minutes, she manages to cut her hand and then they all forget about dinner for the rest of the night.

- she grabs a slice of cake from the fridge in episode 27, but then the camera cuts away from her for a second and the cake is gone for the rest of the episode. it comes back again in the next one and she’s seen “eating” it (note, holding the fork to her mouth. the cake is very visibly untouched. i don’t care how many *munch munch* sound effects rachel uses, there is no way persephone is actually eating any of it.)

ty for this research 😌💖

the second one I'm at least willing to look the other way on and assume they just had dinner offscreen because there's a bit of a montage of the night, but man, it's wild how little she eats, and when she does it's just sweets.

Now APPARENTLY it's canon that Persephone is like a "hummingbird" and needs to have high sugar diets ?? Don't quote me on that, that's what someone else told me and if that info exists anywhere, it was likely on the Patreon page which is now defunct (if it exists at all). If that's the case, I wish Rachel could just be a bit more creative with it. It's interesting to have a character like that (makes me think of L from Death Note, he doesn't need a reason tho, he just likes sweets LMAO) but if you're not gonna explicitly state it IN THE COMIC ITSELF or use it just as an excuse to default to cakes and donuts whenever food is present in a GREEK MYTHOLOGY COMIC then it comes across less as ingenious or necessary to her characterization and more lazy. There are Greek desserts!

(also nitpicky but if she's like a hummingbird, NATURAL sugars should be more her priority - like fruits and dairy products - or stuff just with standard sugar added, why is she just eating processed junk food all the time, that would kill a hummingbird LMAO)

[deathfavor]

Something I love about these last two chapters is we REALLY get to see the troupe's understanding of Chrollo. Of course we KNOW they know him, but this is a different level than we've seen before in canon versus common fanon. We've KNOWN they deeply care about him; the whole Yorknew City arc made that clear and also brought about the interesting situation of where different members stand - whether the put Chrollo as a being first or Chrollo's ideals / beliefs for the Troupe first. And there's no wrong answer here (okay there is to Chrollo actually but he doesn't hold it against them). Both valuing Chrollo as an individual as well as putting his command "the spider before any individual" show that the members CARE about him. This isn't a secret. They all go to such lengths to show they care about him.

But caring doesn't necessarily mean you UNDERSTAND someone. We see that in so many other bonds and connections in HxH. People care but they misunderstand, or don't actually know how a person will react despite thinking they do.

This isn't the case with The Troupe. They all understand each other so deeply, and we did see some of that back with Yorknew City arc, but 405 & 406 are when we get to see it in regards to CHROLLO specifically. Because even in all the times we see him, he remains a very ELUSIVE character; both in understanding and even just in panels or frames in the anime.

But here we have Bonolenov saying he knows Chrollo is struggling with inner conflict and emotion. With a character like Chrollo, it could easily be brushed off as this being one character's point of view, but what makes this so EFFICIENT in that IMMEDIATELY in the next chapter we have Chrollo confirm that Bonolenov was right. " I'm struggling to control these conflicting emotions. Patience is a virtue, but I can't afford to wait around either. " I don't think this would have been NEARLY as effective if we had this Chrollo introspection 3 or 4 chapters later. The fact the chapters are back to back drives how well he's understood, especially because to this point, Chrollo's shown very little signs of truly being shaken by anything that's happened beside a panel or two. Furthermore, we have the other troupe members comments + Bonolenov explicitly saying that the rest of the Troupe wants to find Hisoka first BECAUSE they all know what state Chrollo is in and they all know Chrollo is just ACTING composed.

They know Chrollo knows. And they all know he knows they know. But he keeps acting the same because he is logical first and foremost. It's just cracking at the seams. He acts because Chrollo struggles to understand himself, to identify himself, and this anger and pain forces him to be more of an individual rather than an abstract concept ( i.e. recall when asked who he is he simply says "The Spider" ) which isn't something he's been for a LONG time. Since the Troupe began, really.

This is far from any eloquent or pretty post, and it's become something of a ramble, but the point is that I love it's canon now just how deeply the troupe understands Chrollo and vice versa, even if Chrollo's presently struggling. Not just in a logical sense, but even understanding Chrollo's emotional state better than Chrollo himself currently is. Hence why they're working so hard to find Hisoka first, even though Chrollo wants to personally kill him again.

[bayofwolves]

Rereading Blood Ties

We're back again with the third book! In these posts, I highlight details that I find interesting enough to comment on and/or that I previously missed as a younger reader. Since I plan to revise this series and create a fourth arc, a full reread is in order. So, let's see what adventures these kids get up to next!

This is one of my favourite covers in the entire series. There's really nothing more iconic than the first, like, four covers in my opinion. Also, the way I see Meilin is pretty close to how she appears here.

Rollan experiences seeing through Essix's eyes for the first time in this book, completely by accident. And that's not the only thing. In a later chapter, he taps in to her sense of taste, too (unfortunately for him).

Xue hesitates when she introduces herself to Meilin, suggesting that this may not be her real name. "My name is... You can call me Xue."

True melanistic tigers such as Zhamin do not exist on Earth, so here we have a fictional tiger colour!

Assuming names from Meilin's part of Zhong follow the same conventions as Chinese ones, Meilin's full name would be written as Teng Meilin (surname first, followed by given name). Of course, it's never explicitly stated that Teng is a surname, but from my basic knowledge of Chinese names, I think it's clear enough. Meilin is probably the only one of the Four to have a surname.

Somehow, the Tergesh never summon spirit animals, which Lishay theorizes is because of their existing relationships with their rhinos. Interesting. So exposure to an animal from a young age can prevent any spirit animal bond from forming? I feel like it should be the other way around -- growing up close with one animal opens up the possibility of a spirit animal bond forming between you when you're old enough -- but that's just me.

Lishay is able to understand Zhosur's thoughts as if there is a telepathic link between them. Same with Tarik and Lumeo. This must be common in spirit animal bonds. Do the humans just have the thought deposited in their minds, or do they hear the "voice" of their spirit animal? I think it would be awesome if, in time, the Four Fallen were able to speak directly into their human partners' minds, using the voices they had as Great Beasts.

Meilin's tattoo of Jhi keeps moving around from the back of her hand to her arm, even in this one book. I go with the hand in A Revised History of Erdas; it's a more unique location.

It appears Conor has renounced his ties to Trunswick since Hunted. Whereas Abeke proudly tells Jodoboda that she is from Okaihee, Conor says he is "from nowhere in particular". Of course, this could be because his family lived in the fields near but not in Trunswick, but I prefer the idea that he gave up his connections to the town after his abysmal experience there in the last book.

Abeke can tell time from the movement of the stars. She also names one of Erdas's constellations, the Elephant's Trunk. I wonder, was this constellation named in honour of Dinesh? Are there perhaps other constellations likewise corresponding to other Great Beasts? (This is the kind of stuff I want to know about Erdas; what's going on in space? What are their stars like? What if they had more than one moon? Are there other planets nearby?)

When Conor and Abeke ask Briggan and Uraza to help them see better in the swamp, it's almost reminiscent of prayer. They kneel down, close their eyes and utter their request in their minds. Since the Great Beasts are essentially Erdas's gods, I found this bit neat.

So the Sunset Death is spread via insect bite, and seems comparable to malaria. It's named this because the person who falls ill to it will die at sunset. Man, Rollan has been through it.

Conor talks in his sleep.

On the way to the Lake of the Elephant, Meilin rides noticeably silently and later falls off her rhino as if she had been asleep. However, this is very likely a well-disguised instance of her being mind-controlled by Gerathon, which explains how the Conqueror army found them so quickly. I've never realized this before now.

Dinesh has some pretty cool powers. He can turn himself to stone, change his size and heal himself instantly. Despite his obnoxious behaviour during the Grand Council in Tales of the Great Beasts, he might be one of my favourite Great Beasts.

Conor puts two and two together and concludes that the reason Abeke stayed with the Conquerors for so long is because she had feelings for Shane. Seems like everyone knows what's up except for Abeke and Shane themselves. This is an instance of clear romantic implications for these two -- Abeke blushes and is uncharacteristically defensive when Conor questions her about Shane, Conor then figures out that she likes him. Overall, the nature of Shane and Abeke's relationship is left somewhat ambiguous, enough that I used to see many people argue there were no romantic feelings between them at all -- but there are moments like this that say otherwise.

Lishay is the Erdas equivalent of Indian, confirmed in later books but first implied by the fact she uses a talwar, a type of sword from India. So, Zhong isn't just a fantasy version of China -- there are other Asian regions in there, too.

Shane is probably the one responsible for Teng's death, not Gar. Even though Gar was riding Grahv when the crocodile killed Teng, he had no control over him as he wasn't his spirit animal. Which means, unless Grahv was following his natural instincts in that moment (possible), or Gerathon was controlling him like with Iskos (unlikely), Shane was controlling him from afar.

It's still unclear how Meilin was given the Bile. Did Teng replace the Nectar with Bile himself, or did he get someone else to do it? Sheyu might have been involved, if he defected to the Conquerors -- he did let Lenori take Meilin to the Greencloaks, but that's what the Conquerors wanted. I guess we'll never know the truth of it.

A spirit animal may return to the passive state in death. We see this with Zhosur and later Aputin (Dante's spirit animal).

Xue kind of reads as a mystical being to me. Her age, her wisdom, the way she comes and goes... I'm sure she was intended to be a normal human being, but I think it'd be cool if she was actually a spirit who guided Meilin on her quest. Something about their relationship reminds me of those stories about supernatural beings disguising themselves and appearing to humans, helping the good ones but cursing the bad ones. Whoever Xue is, there's certainly an aura of mystery around her. I wish we saw her again in the series.

This book has some really good scenes of the Four bonding and working together as a team. Meilin even lays off Abeke for the entirety of the book! It's too bad she relapses into her mistrust and aggression towards her in the next two.

This reread really made me appreciate how fantastic Blood Ties is. My love for Meilin has been well and truly rekindled by now. What an amazing character. The Reilin developments were wonderful to read about, too; their romance is so good. I really let this one pull me in and could clearly visualize everything that was happening, which is part of what made the experience so enjoyable. And the final battle was the greatest one so far.

Let's hope we don't sacrifice all this character development in the next book! (Spoilers... we do)

This is part of an ongoing series.

Wild Born | Hunted | Blood Ties | Fire and Ice | Against the Tide | Rise and Fall | The Evertree

Immortal Guardians | Broken Ground | The Return | The Burning Tide

Heart of the Land | The Wildcat's Claw | Stormspeaker | The Dragon's Eye

Tales of the Great Beasts | The Book of Shane | Tales of the Fallen Beasts

[lgbtlunaverse]

POV switches in chapter 108

This is generally me trying to figure out which parts of the novel are from wei wuxian's limited perspective and which ones are omniscient, as they switch pretty frequently and without warning. And also specifcally because @darkfalcon-z asked in a reply to a post I made earlier today!

Obvious disclaimer that this meta looks pretty closely into specific wording, and that my source remains a translation. I haven't read the original text and so can't attest to my accuracy there.

So MDZS gets real messy with its narration. It obviously starts in omniscient with celebrating Wei Wuxian's death, but spends a lot of its time in limited, most exemplary shown by the enduring obliviousness wei wuxians has towards lan wangji's feelings never being explicitly undercut by the narration.

The novel... does NOT telepgraph when it switches povs. Moreover, wei wuxian does sometimes make confident statement about how other characters feel. Prime example being him talking about how jiang cheng would react to finding out about his core

This being, notably... NOT what Jiang Cheng's actual reaction is when he does find out. That's because wwx is working with incomplete information here, he didn't know Jiang Cheng was willing to lose his core for him to begin with.

Also, he afformentioned obliviousness to Lan Wangji leading to him, multiple times, attributing the wrong motivations to lan wangji's actions.

The novel doesn't outright say "wei wuxian assumed/ thought that jiang cheng would react like that" in the screenshot above, but it DOES clearly show, by leading with him thinking about why he thought he coudn't tell jiang cheng about the golden core transfer, that we're in his head at the moment. And so the following statements are also his thoughts, not omniscient narrations. The difference is very subtle. But it's there

So we're in chapter 108. right before Lan Xichen stabs Jin Guangyao, an we're clearly in omniscient.

Lan Xichen's feelings are stated plainly and there's not very much focus on Wei wuxian at all. It switches over briefly to him and lwj checking up on Wen Ning but his feelings are not overriding everything else.

Then the stab happens

We're still in omniscient here. "Lan xichen felt his heart go cold" a detail Wei Wuxian couldn't know, stated plainly as a matter of fact.

However.

I think this part

Is where we retreat from omniscient back into wei wuxian's pov. We're not told anything about either of these character's inner worlds, but do get some extra litte commentary that jgy was so slow that even Jin Ling could catch him with his eyes closed! That's not something either Lan Xichen or jgy would be thinking of right now. It is, however, a comment Wei Wuxian's inner monologue might think to make.

In the context of my earlier post, which this was inspired by. It also makes some assumptions. Namely, that Xichen is just going after jgy to catch him. It doesn't explicitly say so, because we're not in omniscient anymore but it's clear Wei Wuxian thinks so as he'll feel the need to warn him in a few seconds. This is interesting, as it directly contradicts a popular fan interpretation of this scene, that's become explicitly canonized in multipe adaptations, which is that Lan Xichen is intentionally going along with and is willing to die with him. I'm not saying this theory is correct based on its popularity alone, obviously. I was actually surprised to find out it was so vague when I read the novel considering its popularity!

By the next chapter we'll be unambiguously back into wei uxian's head, and after "Lan Xichen could no longer persuade himself to silence him again" which is in the paragraph before the one in the image above, we are no longer told any other character's feelings or inner thoughts except for Wei Wuxian's. Specifically, this:

So this describes wei wuxian realizing a "something" what something? well, this something.

Again, the difference is subtle. The statement of "He was fighting with his last breath to lead Lan Xichen towards Nie Mingjue, so they could die together!" might seem like another one of those "other charcters' feelings" statements. But we're not IN Jin Guangyao's head right now. This is describing actions, not thoughts. He's not trying to get away (a visible action wwx would be privy to) which must be because...see statement above.

And all of this is framed under the banner of Wei Wuxian saying he realized something, and that being that Jin Guangyao isn't trying to get away and Lan Xichen needs to get away from him because... see statement above. This line basically starts as a repitition of what Wei Wuxian said, repeating his assumption, and then clarifying what Wei Wuxian DOES think is happening. The whole paragraph between is just buildup for the payoff of what that "something" of the realization is. MXTX could have writtern "wei wuxian, however, realized something. Jin Guangyao wasn't trying to get away! Instead he was trying to lead Lan Xichen towards Nie Mingjue so they could die together" and them describe the scenario, it'd be functionally the same in the manner of what information was conveyed, but the little gap in setup and payoff increases suspense and makes the reveal more engaging. It's a good little writing trick!

That wording above does make it way more obvious that that statement? Is one of wei wuxian's. That's what HE thinks.

In the line where jgy pushes lan xichen away, we're still not privy to their feelings or thoughts at all.

But we do get this curious litle "yet,"

That means this is a subversion, something that goes against what was previously established. Namely, that jin guangyao would want lan xichen to get caught by nie mingjue. The actual reality of the situaton conrasts hat we were told earlier. it's a surprise. to who? Well, to all the other characters watching this go down. wwx among them. We get other little commentaries, like how the sight of jgy being choked by nmj is frightening, placing us even further away from his inner world and into the shoes of someone watching him in the temple.

The style being used here is similar to the one in the next chapter, when nie huasang's plan is unveiled. First you get bit of dialogue with clear implications from Wei Wuxian, and then we go into wei wxuxian's head. In a few lines it's explicitly established that he's questioning things, and we are following his line of thought. And then a whle account of nie huasang's plan is given. With no further affirmation that we're still in wei wuxian's head. That's based on context clues given prior. Is this recount of the plan correct? Most likely, yeah! But we're never expicitly told. We are still in wei wuxian's head.

This bit on Jin Guangyao is similar. From the removal of stating other character's feelings (a possible exception might be the statement that "Nie Mingjue is not afraid of spiritual weapons" but that is something observable to wwx who's been seeing nmj not give a shit for a good few minutes now. We get nothing he's not privy to) and a clear indication that we're inside his head now. What we get next is his reocunt of the events, and they're fairly factul as he simply tells us what he sees, but when he gets into the reasons for why things ar ehappening? Well, if we wanted to, we could doubt that.

[squealing-for-harusono-sensei]

Hirano to Kagiura Ch.18 Analysis: The sky panel

Ch.18 feels to me as a sort of interlude chapter. Or rather, like it's the beginning of a new thing kagihira has to work on. The whole "Kagiura wants Hirano to be needy" thing gets resolved (for now) by Kagiura teaching Hirano basketball, which also gives a new thing for them to do together. The chapter then ends with Kagiura overreacting to their fingers touching (as one in love tends to do) and Hirano worrying about it. It feels a lot like setup. Without knowing what it's setting up, it's hard for me to talk about it.

So I'm going to be completely self-indulgent and talk about why a panel which has neither Hirano nor Kagiura in it is one of my favorite kagihira panels in this entire manga. It's this one:

If you don't get it, I don't blame you. But to me it is peak kagihira and I'm going to explain why.

A lot of it is the context I ascribe to the panel.

Firstly, I thoroughly believe that Hirano is very interested in planes. It has never been explicitly stated, but we got several hints of it in ch.3 (the one were Hirano goes the school trip). To summarize, he looks a lot on the planes, is excited for the return flight as soon as they arrived, and mentioned the planes on his phone call with Kagiura. His interest in planes is relevant here because in the panel we see the distinct cloud pattern that follows a plane, meaning a plane just passed by.

So the panel shows representations Hirano's interest (the passing plane) and Kagiura's interest (the basketball and the hoop at the bottom of the panel). Which brings me to my second point, the ways that interest and romance intersects in Hirano to Kagiura. Admittedly that is a far more indirect context for the panel, but it is a big part of the reason why I love the panel and kagihira in general.

A thing that Harusono-sensei does in both Sasaki to Miyano and Hirano to Kagiura is to improve understanding between the main characters through their interests. This is pretty obvious in Sasaki to Miyano, with Sasaki wanting to get closer and learn more about Miyano by reading the BL that Miyano likes, and later they occasionally relate what happens in their relationship to things in BL. Meanwhile, in Hirano to Kagiura a big part of Hirano's understanding of Kagiura comes through Kagiura's love for basketball. He sees sides of him that he wouldn't otherwise have (like when Kagiura missed and lost a basketball match). I also argued in my ch.15 analysis that a big part of the reason why Hirano realized that he needed to face Kagiura's feelings head on was by relating Kagiura's seriousness towards basketball to his seriousness about Hirano.

Just... Kagiura's life would revolve completely around basketball if it wasn't for Hirano and completely around Hirano if it wasn't for basketball. And Hirano is only truly seeing his love for basketball and not understanding Kagiura's love for him. Technically, Kagiura's love for basketball and his love for Hirano has nothing to do with each other–it's two strong but very different feelings and Hirano doesn't seek out with basketball unless it's because of Kagiura. But because Kagiura feels so strongly for both and because Hirano cares so much for Kagiura, it keeps overlapping anyway.

On the page right before the panel Kagiura is doing a layup. And we see Hirano looking up at him. And Kagiura is sparkling in Hirano's eyes once again. And on the next page we see the panel that is set as we were looking up at Kagiura and then kept looking up at the sky. Where we see symbols of something that Kagiura cares about (basketball) and something that Hirano cares about (planes). And then we follow the basketball back down, seeing it land, and on the next page we see that Hirano is still looking at Kagiura.

That's the third context. Really the panel wouldn't work without the way it's set up and the way we're brought back down from the sky to Hirano and Kagiura again. So maybe I just love the whole tiny scene.

Still. There's something something about the way that the panel connects kagihira's love for their interests and their love for each other that I can't help but adore.

[animehouse-moe]

Chainsaw Man Chapter 147: Cremation

To be fair, not a whole lot going on here. It's a Chainsaw Man chapter and is focused on action. It looks very cool and stays true to a lot of Fujimoto's idiosyncrasies for combat, but there's not a whole lot going on. That said, there is still things happen that are worth talking about.

The biggest one obviously being Barem's declaration that Nayuta has to die.

The question is what purpose does Nayuta's death fulfill here? There's two potential reasons for it that come down from Fami herself. The first is that Nayuta has to die to let Denji run loose, as she's been a core piece of comfort for him through the Chainsaw Man identity crisis. The second reason is that Nayuta will most likely get in the way of Fami's plan to stop the prophecy from happening, and because of that needs to be removed.

Both are equally possible, but it's really hard to know which is correct considering how inscrutable Fami's work has been in recent chapters.

Anyways, the other key thing from this episode is the state of the pseudo Chainsaws. Barem calls them devils as they're no longer human. The curious part is what's required to kill them, as it's assumed to be an intrinsic trait to a "contract" with the Fire Devil. Just as people became unkillable zombies via the Zombie Devil, it appears that those that formed contracts with the Fire Devil require special ways to kill them. Ironically, it's fire in this example, which I feel is going to massively backfire.

This poses a really interesting question, because could you consider these Chainsaws to be fiends? They have a protrusion appearing from their head and are not exactly conscious or sentient beings anymore. But it's also not a devil inhabiting the body. Would it be considered something closer to the dolls created by the Doll Devil? But those are explicitly dolls, where Barem uses the word Devil here. Even further, the subjugation of an individual isn't a confirmed ability of the Fire Devil, so this is more than likely a side effect of the contract. Very very curious what these Chainsaws might be.

Though I'm even more curious to see what goes on in the next chapter now that Denji's on the ground and we're setup to see some real action and fighting.

[mochiwrites]

"it's okay, scar. this wasn't your fault. we can figure out the next move together."

WHAT IF I DIED?? WHAT IF I EXPLODED INTO A MILLION LITTLE PIECES AND DIED???? im so not ready for when scar gets found out. IM NOT READY. oh GODODODD NO. hes so. theres so much guilt. so much DECEPTION!!

"he killed them for hurting the vampire he's in love with"

am i crazy or is this the first time it's explicitly mentioned. i might be crazy. i feel crazy. about them. they make me crazy. HES IN LOVEEEEEE and he CARESSSSSSSSSS AWEEEEEEEEEE

"he would've lost another human to scott. and he wouldn't have had a clue"

WHAT? WHAT WHAT WHAT WHATATATT WHAT?? scott killed the previous human???? WHAT? whatwhatWHAT??? am i insane or is this the first explicit mention of what happened to the human? im so sorry if im overreacting here and these things were mentioned previously but I AM SHOOK? well not surprised, really, considering how antagonized scott is, but IT'S EXPLICITLY STATED IM SHOOK???

"in the same way you don't want to lose me, I don't want to lose you"

THEYRE COMMUNICATING!!! THEYRE FINALLY COMMUNICATING AND ITS SO WONDERFUL!!!! i love this for them. im so proud of them. i love them so much omg.

incredible chapter, as always. looking forward to the rest of act 2 and act 3, as always. equally terrified of what's to come, as always. probably gonna end up drawing fanart of this (though possibly not post).

IM NOT EVEN READY FOR SCAR TO GET FOUND OUT AND I KNOW WHEN IT HAPPENS T^T NO ONE IS SAFE. ABSOLUTELY NO ONE

but that whole scene of grian so tenderly taking scar’s hand and holding it and scar’s whole reaction just,,,, WAHHHHHH

and ehehe you are NOT crazy! because that Is in fact the first time it’s explicitly said that scar is in love with mumbo. there’s a reason why it’s not some big dramatic reveal. it’s said very casually on purpose :3

I was hoping someone would catch the scott thing >:3c that’s also the first time anything has been said about the human as well <3

many secrets to be revealed soon hehehe

I’m SO excited about what remains in arc 2. this next fic will be a bit chill since the boys have had a Time. though we’ll get some fun world building bits that I’m Very excited about >:3c

[onlyjaeyun]

I get where the anon is coming from, and as you say it is a trauma response, and i also think most people get that.

My general ‘problem’ is more that the dom daddy and especially the little Girl get taken out of the bedroom, when Jay asks her to do anything (when she has anxiety, or if he asks her to do anything) I really loved the dynamic of both of them having the kink, but her being so insecure and so subby all the time, honestly makes me think of her younger than she is, and it’s really giving me the ick 😭

I’m so sorry for airing it to you, and I understand if you dont wanna respond. I generally like how you write, but i had hoped she would become confident and stronger after getting with Jay, because he would influence her to be Exactly that.. instead she kind of became what she feared Jay would see her as; a young girl.

I do really appreciate you and your stories, i just hope you can kind of see where I’m coming from? I’ll personally stop reading this story, but I’ll wait patiently on your next one 🫶🏼

No please don't be sorry, I genuinely appreciate you guys' opinions and criticism. I have to kind of defend myself and say that personally I always include my DD/LG part of the fic into the daily life and that's why I state it so explicitly before every single chapter and in the masterlist.

I understand that this makes the reader seem younger than she is but the whole being take care of like that is what makes this kink for me personally! I understand when people don't enjoy it and would never point my finger at you or force you tor ead, I just hope this explanation makes sense to you.

Strictly Business will be about 70 chapters and I was actually gonna give Y/N a nice confidence boost very soon yet I'll take these comments to heart and see if I can change that part in the story line and have her be a little more confident already. I don't want to dismiss her character development just because she's submissive to Jongseong like that (does that make sense😭) but yeah, just know i truly appreciate this!💗