#Impulse is the only survivor. Naturally

[teaboot]

do you think i'll ever get to a place in my life where i'm actually a good person and i don't keep getting bombarded with people telling me all the ways i'm doing things wrong. will i ever stop feeling like i'm faking being good and i'm actually a despicable person deep down inside like there's something rotten and irremovable in the very core of me. i feel sick

As a recovering self-hater I have a few things that have been helping

Truly shitty people are typically, in my experience, not chronically preoccupied with anxieties that they need to be better. It seems to be the 100% rock-solid certainty that everything you ever do is selfless that you need to watch out for.

Motive only matters in court. If you donate 30 hours a week to charity so you can tell yourself you're a good person or you donate that same time because you genuinely enjoy helping people, that's still 30 hours, imo. At that point the argument is more philosophical than anything. The help is still happening.

Nobody can read your mind. You can be the bitterest, cattiest, most judgemental and mean-spirited motherfucker alive, but as long as you don't let your feelings hurt others, you're golden. In fact, I personally think you should get extra credit for effort. Swimming upriver ain't easy

None of us are selfless by nature. That's okay. We all crave attention, and validation, and comfort, and reward. That self-interest is a survival skill. It's not going anywhere and I don't think it should. The key is moderation, self control, and consideration for others.

The loudest voice in your head probably isn't yours. Survivors of all kinds of abuse- and all abuse is psychological to varying extremes- often keep their critic's narrative in their head. That voice that says you're awful- is that something you'd say to someone else? No? Then try to figure out who said it to you. They were probably an asshole. The voice that answers it it probably your own. Listen to that one

No, you will not feel like this forever. It's a pain in the ass, but dedicating time and thought into ignoring that inner critic and elevating your positive impulses is effective.

Some things I've done myself that seem to help:

Do some research on cognitive behavioral therapy and cognitive reprogramming. These are easier to exercise with a therapist but once you figure out the steps to follow you can do them on your own, too.

When you do something good, write it down for yourself. Keep a dated journal, either on paper or in your phone. When you find yourself in a pit of self-loathing, you can go back and remind yourself of all the good you've done. If this is hard, try listing 3 good things you did at the end of each day. Anything from picking up a scrap of litter to running a food drive.

Long post, but really, the best thing I can say is this:

Aything that takes effort is worth celebrating, even if that effort is minimal or that task is considered small.

At the end of the day, "bare minimum" isn't working a full-time job and eating three meals a day, cleaning up after yourself and doing it with a smile- bare minimum is nothing. Bare minimum is laying on the floor motionless for 24 hours and filter-feeding like a sea sponge. And if even that's difficult for you, then it's not your bare minimum, is it?

There's a lot of cruel, inconsiderate, uncaring people in the world, only out for themselves at the expense of others, and even if you think you're one of them, giving a shit about doing better still puts you a mile ahead of most.

Try not to worry too terribly. If you're thinking about it, you're probably doing fine👍

[sophiamcdougall]

As a writer who knows a lot of people in the British SFF scene I really want to push back on the "everyone knew about Neil Gaiman" narrative. I don't know anyone who knew. I don't know anyone who isn't shocked. Yes, we now know there were people who did know, people who created whisper networks, but by their very nature whisper networks can only reach a minority of people. (Which incidentally, isn't a condemnation of whisper networks at all. If you've heard a rumour you have no way of verifying, or even if you know a victim who quite rationally does not want to be outed, what else can you do but warn people privately when you can?) Obviously the victims didn't know until it was too late, so why would anyone else? Gaiman had such a celebrity status that he was "above" basically everyone in the field. He was the famous, powerful person generously dipping into their lives. I'd never met him, but even people I knew who considered him a friend were mostly seeing him on occasions where of course he'd have his charming, gregarious persona in play. There seems to be this impulse, perhaps fuelled by Gaiman's silence, to attack everyone who's not him (and especially women and NB acquaintances, it's not lost on me.) Yesterday a casual friend of his with a minor platform felt she had to apologise, humbly, for not having made a public statement before! She'd done absolutely nothing wrong and had been made to feel ashamed of something he'd done. Yes, there are conversations we can have about power structures and privilege and press organs that told a survivor her experience "wasn't enough." But ultimately Neil Gaiman did this. He made those choices. He owes accountability.

[overbaked-tkls]

hello, I like your works so much!! You make awesome fanfics and despite the fact that I have to use a translator because I don’t speak English I can read your fanfics every day!

I have ask for you, can you write a fanfic about Lee!Jason and Ler!Guest1337 (or anyone who you want)?

I hope I didn’t make too many mistakes while I was writing. And by the way, have a nice day!

hi, i'm super glad you like my writing! it's good that it translates nicely.

anyways LEE!JASON FOR FRIDAY THE 13TH BABYYYY YEAA!!

also WHAT. never speak again /j (i laughed for a solid minute)

(this is a sfw tickle fic! if you don't like it don't read it)

"Maybe you've got something underneath that jacket.”

words: 2,984

ler!guest1337, lee!jason

summary: rip jason's machete ????-2025 you wont be missed

---

The hum of various appliances and LED lights in the extensive horror hotel map droned on, as quick footsteps thumped against the floor. The tapping against kitchen tile, the slight creak on wooden floors, and the soft padding against brightly patterned carpet were just natural for any chase. Even more so for Jason, who was used to hunting people down to the last of their stamina, given the absence of ranged attacks in his arsenal.

His first target, Noob, hadn’t really gotten much of a head start as they were taken by surprise while doing a generator. As a result, the masked killer had made quick work of the poor survivalist. Just one more hit, and they were done for. 

He was about to finish them off, lunging to swing through one of the doorways, when someone from the side of his vision quickly invaded his space. An armored hand reeled back, before throwing itself forward. Guest 1337 had caught him halfway through a machete swing with a powerful strike, effectively stunning the killer. Noob looked back slightly to give a desperate thankful look, before booking it away. Hopefully to get a medkit.

However, Guest’s hand hadn’t only collided with Jason’s head, but it also smashed against his machete on the way. Notable for a couple reasons, one being it was a complete accident, something that would be pretty hard to replicate on purpose. Two being that despite the death grip on the weapon, the action violently ripped the blade out of the killer’s hand, sending it flying straight into Jason’s face. The machete ended up ricocheting off the top of his plastic mask, flinging surprisingly far away from the two of them up into the air.

Unrealistically far. 

Strangely.. Far?

… Is it going to come back down??

Even Guest paused for a moment to watch the weapon disappear over one of the tall rock walls while Jason was stunned. “What the hell..?” Certainly not the strangest thing that’s happened here, though. He quickly recovered as an active chainsaw was swung at him, to which he dodged and promptly ditched the scene.

It took a bit for Guest to lose chase, but a lot less than normal for some reason– Jason seemed much less confident without his main blade. However, when the killer left to go find a different victim, 1337 returned to stalk a bit behind. He did that on the norm, because it made it simpler to assist others when they started getting chased. Now though, the soldier was thinking a bit ahead. The chainsaw was all the mute killer had left as a weapon… aside from their hands, theoretically. But still, it would be a lot easier for the other survivors to, well… survive, if Jason was completely disarmed. And he was carrying the chainsaw on his back, so he could probably just… take it? 

1337 wasn’t the type to act on impulse, but once he committed to something, he didn’t back out. So after constructing a rather simple plan, he crept up behind the killer and yanked at the weapon. Jason quickly swiveled around, swinging an empty hand on instinct. Without the blade in it though, Guest just caught it and finished the job of taking the chainsaw off, tossing it to the side before harshly shoving Jason forward.

The veteran didn’t pay attention to the way the killer stumbled back into a wall, slightly cowering for a second. Guest didn’t really know anything about chainsaws, but he figured if he stomped on the chain and landed a good kick on the entire handle area, it would do something. So he did, and… somehow, it actually worked? The chain came off around where he struck, rendering the weapon practically useless. If Guest had been given any more time, he might have considered how strange that was. But he only looked back at Jason to see what the next move was. The killer showed clear hesitation, before stepping forward and trying to attack with his bare hands. Guest swore he could see fear, even with the mask covering Jason’s entire face. Nonetheless, he struck back significantly harder, throwing Jason onto the floor. 

The killer didn’t get up.

Were sentinels.. always this scary? Not having a weapon in his hand gave Jason a strange, unnerving sense of clarity, like Guest’s expression actually registered in his head. It was a determined, yet apprehensive look that made him feel uneasy. Something tugged at the back of his mind to get up and fight again, but every time the killer shifted on the floor, the sentinel tensed and his fists rose. It frightened him, enough so that he moved back, away from the sentinel. 

Looking down upon the unusual sight, Guest was torn between running away again, and staying to reason. He didn’t even feel like he was looking at a killer anymore. Though, it could be a trick to get him to come closer. Maybe the killer had a spare blade somewhere in that coat. Then again, if he did get stabbed once or twice, he could probably take it.

He wasn’t even sure yet what the whole deal with the killers was, even less about Jason himself, but as far as he knew they were probably experiencing a similar situation. Most of them gave ‘free rounds’ every once in a while, or seemed awfully disconnected from reality for actively participating in murder. Like the killers weren’t willingly there half the time– with some exceptions, of course. 

Being forced to kill people when you didn’t really want to was something Guest hadn’t quite come to experience himself, but he certainly wasn’t foreign to the idea, and couldn’t help but feel a little bad.

But his mind was mostly on helping the team. If he could convince Jason to stop completely, that would be the best for the survivors…

“H-hey. Just…” 1337 exhaled, taking a step closer. “Calm it, would you? You know, we… Don’t have to fight, since you don’t have a weapon. And I won’t punch you anymore, if you stop. I mean… wouldn’t a break be nice?”

Silence. It was expected, obviously. Although, Jason did look up at the soldier hearing the offer. Was that.. always a choice? The majority of his decisions during rounds– well, he thought they were his, but still– they were more about ‘go this way’ or ‘cut them off there’. But now he saw himself thinking a lot farther than he was used to. Clearer.

Just as the veteran was coming to terms with how hard a one-sided negotiation was going to be, Jason slightly nodded.

“.. Oh. Really?” The simplicity of the bargain caught Guest slightly off-guard. If only the people in his past had surrendered like that– or maybe even the other killers. But that was just plain unlikely– this probably only happened because he managed to disarm the other. Well, hopefully disarmed, anyway. He’d have to check.

“Okay then. You… are just going to stay here. And we’re going to wait out the timer.” Guest hesitated for another second, before fully approaching and going on one knee in front of the killer. “Hold still for a second.”

The masked killer moved back again at the sudden movement, ignoring the request.

“Hey, hey. Just need to frisk you real quick. Gotta make sure you’re not going to pull another blade on me while I’m not paying attention. Oh, and keep your hands up where I can see them?” Although Guest was a soldier, not a police officer, he wasn’t foolish enough to take easily avoidable risks. So he waited for Jason to do what he asked.

Again in the back of Jason’s head, something angrily yelled at him to not do it, to not listen to a ‘pathetic’ survivor's request. Something other than the normal encouraging voice that normally followed him around anytime he was in a round.

… But he complied with Guest anyway, and after that, the nagging disappeared. Like ‘it’ gave up, or something. Talk about pathetic.

1337 hummed in approval, before beginning to move his hands along the killer's jacket. He was quick to realize it was pretty thick, and by extension heavy. Even though he knew he wouldn’t receive a response, Guest still remarked his thoughts out loud. 

“How you carry a chainsaw and a heavy jacket around while still managing to be so fast is beyond me.. It’s impressive, to say the least.”

Both the amount of pockets Jason had and the thickness of the jacket made it inconvenient to search the killer, especially since Guest hadn’t ever searched someone before. He ended up having to roughly double check a few of the outside pockets because he wasn't sure of his work, although that didn’t end up being the main problem. The entire process wouldn't have taken more than twenty seconds if Jason didn't shift away every five, bringing his hands to where Guest was searching and making the soldier flinch back. 

The veteran’s hands were invasive, although not necessarily unwelcome. Jason wasn’t trying to interrupt him on purpose, but it just felt strange– familiar in a way, yet completely foreign to how he was used to being touched nowadays. Without the intent to hurt, but with enough roughness to earn something other than the knowledge his pockets were empty; he felt himself smile slightly underneath the plastic mask. And then immediately fought to remove it, wondering why it was there.

After giving a prolonged glare, 1337 moved the killer’s hands away to resume his search, completely unaware of what he had just caused. “.. Don’t really appreciate you spooking me like that. So if you could just. Not do that…”

Jason ended up repeating the same action only ten seconds later, but this time Guest didn't jolt away. Instead, he instinctively closed his fists like he would to prepare for a punch, significantly tightening his grip around Jason’s waist pockets.. and also his torso. Guest removed himself from Jason’s side right after, standing up and grunting out an annoyed response. 

“acK- Can you no-” The soldier was going to complain again, but quieted right after looking at the killer. His eyebrows raised at the sight.

Jason had brought his knees closer to his chest, and held the area around where Guest had been frisking him. Confusedly rubbing at the spot.

Ah.

By then, he had finally figured Jason’s pockets were empty, but another question– well, more of a rhetorical excuse– had made itself clear. This was quite the opportunity, one even 1337 knew not to pass up. He wasn't really a boastful person, but the other sentinels would definitely be jealous if he pulled something like this off without getting stabbed. Well.. most of them, anyway.

Looking off to the side for a second, Guest briefly smiled before dropping the look and facing Jason once more. He kneeled back down, reaching out his arms and leaning over a bit. “... Move, I’m not done.” It was a lie, and despite requesting it, he didn’t wait for Jason to move his hands before running his own around the killer’s waist. And this time, he kneaded into his sides a lot more intentionally so it would still have the desired effect despite the jacket. “You know, this is taking a lot longer than it needs to, since you seem so insistent on squirming away from me.”

Only then did Jason finally recognize what that feeling was. However, he was a step behind, just a little too late to stop the soldier before he started. 

The most of the noise in the killer’s response was the shifting sound of coarse fabric, because once he was aware the sentinel was no longer just searching him, he didn’t stop himself from writhing. While only evident from his shoulders, Jason was definitely laughing, and although practically silent, it occasionally caught in his mouth and turned into a quiet snicker. The sensation didn’t feel natural whatsoever, but somehow reminded him of something that was. Or used to be. At least this was different– better, than the last time he remembered being handled so roughly. Anyways, what was he even supposed to do? Fight back?

Jason tried. Emphasis on tried, because Guest just took one of his hands and pinned it to the ground.

The veteran couldn’t help but smile again, strategically squeezing around the other’s midriff with his free hand. Score. “I’m just searching your pockets. What, got something to hide?”

Jason shook his head as his other arm waved around. The ‘no’ gesture was to both discredit Guest’s claim and deny the question, but it didn’t really matter. One thing he had learned about the sentinels is that they were extremely stubborn, even in death.

“No? Hm.. not sure I believe that.” Guest thought for a second, searching for an excuse. “Oh! Maybe you've got something underneath the coat.” 1337 brought his hands back around to the killer’s front, dipping them into where Jason’s jacket was open and repeating the same kneading motion directly on his shirt, just a bit gentler. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that the only thing he was ‘searching for’ at this point was a reaction. Guest didn’t even consider that revenge was an option, but it honestly serves Jason right. Always using heavy attacks whenever he missed his block…

The masked killer froze up for a split second, before practically losing it. Not used to this, at all. He tilted his head back, but still no real noise came out. His breathing was a little more obvious though.

The sentinel chuckled, casually speaking as he unpredictably alternated between soft and rough prodding. “... Alright, let’s be ‘serious’. You are… a little ticklish, for a ruthless murderer.” He was interrupted as Jason unsuccessfully tried to throw him off. “And squirmy.” 1337 took Jason’s other hand, and without being able to use it to balance himself upright, the killer fell on his back. It made Guest let go, but the veteran just quietly sighed and adjusted forward a bit.

Jason’s chest heaved. “Hey, look at me.” Guest brought his hands near the killer’s stomach to catch Jason’s attention, who looked at his hands instead. He didn’t even try to push at the veteran, in ‘fear’ he would be pinned again. “Actually, that works even better.” 1337 suddenly poised his hands, making the other jump, and then did nothing.

“This is how I feel trying to predict your attacks, by the way.” Halfway through the sentence, the soldier resumed poking and scribbling somewhere around the killer’s lower stomach and hips. He wasn’t paying attention exactly where, his eyes too busy attempting to glimpse at Jason’s through the small eye holes in his mask.

Jason did not think it would get worse, to say the least. The survivor kept stopping at random intervals and faking him out, both annoying him and making him jump every time 1337 actually resumed. So the screeching and laughter he heard the other day in limbo wasn’t over exaggerated...

“Difficult, right?” To the sentinel’s surprise, Jason nodded on top of his wriggling. Guest’s smile widened– he was actually listening. This would be quite the story, and he was thankful it would be him telling it. Anyone else in the cabin wouldn’t have a chance to be believed for this type of thing.

But of course, good things don't typically last forever. 1337 was almost too focused on the moment to notice the glint of metal that suddenly appeared in his vision. He quickly withdrew his hands, and then moved back– the machete had reappeared, resting on the killer like a twisted invitation. Jason’s hand instinctively twitched, feeling the metal against him, and he sat up. Since Guest had stopped, he picked the weapon up even though his hands were a bit shaky.

And then he realized he didn’t actually want to do anything with it. His mind finally felt clear for once, and he didn’t feel like losing that, as temporary as it probably was. Unsure of what to do with the blade, he carefully turned it in his hand and handed it to the survivor on the handle side. 

That was single-handedly the most surprising thing that had happened to Guest ever since he got put into this realm. But while he still had the chance, he quickly snatched the blade. Jason regretted it halfway through the motion, because he realized he just handed a weapon to someone he’d been stabbing in rounds for months. Nothing bad happened though, and he tilted his head curiously as 1337 turned and stood up, walking to an entryway to one of the more open spaces.

“Thanks.” Guest said simply, before chucking the weapon. Whatever caused the blade to spawn back would probably be a little mad about that one. “Sooo.” He did a 180, walking back. Jason had gotten up during that time, but didn’t run away. He crumbled slightly just looking at the sentinel. Still intimidating.

“Let’s wrap this up, yeah? We’ve got about… three minutes, I think.” Advancing quicker than the killer was ready for, the soldier quickly found where he’d left off. Although, he didn’t do any more squeezing, just soft, erratic little scribbles wherever he felt like. Each twist Jason did in attempts to get away made him feel just a little bit better about getting slashed at so many times.

After another minute or two, he stopped. “Not even sure if you understand how much this matters, by the way.”

And even through the aftermath, Jason most certainly did understand. Unfortunately.

. . .

It took a while to coax an answer out of Jason, but the two who noticed the strange nature of his return got it eventually. Neither made fun of him.

“Hah. Really hope they don’t attempt something like that on me. Would not end well.” Doe remarked, before jokingly nudging 1x.

Thousand-yard stare.

[lassieposting]

Concept:

You are Bhaal, god of murder, and someone is praying to you.

And that's not necessarily unusual. Lots of people pray to you, usually for the untimely death of a rival, an ex-spouse, an overseer. The prayer itself is a small and broken thing, bloody and raw, whispered by a man whose vision is dulled by agony and the dark spectre of approaching death. The pathetic not-quite-survivor of some rather brutal torture, wishing murder upon his captor. You take a moment to enjoy the fear, the pain, the suffering - and then you tune him out. There are millions like him, and your favour is for those willing to do their killing themselves. Besides, that wretch will be nothing but a corpse all too soon.

Except...he doesn't die. You never feel that timid little spark of existence stutter and go out. Far beyond the breaking point of a mortal body, this one lingers on, clinging to being with fingers all but stripped back to bare bone.

It's intriguing enough to warrant a second look and - interesting. The prayer comes from a vampire, a pretty little corpse becoming an even prettier corpse under the skilled hand of a cruel master.

It is not in your nature to intervene. You favour the strong, not the weak. The master, not the slave. Your first instinct is to leave the wretched little thing to his fate.

But the thing is. Your child - your favourite child, shaped from your own flesh, coldest and most brutal of your progeny - has gone and got a boyfriend.

And you don't like him.

You don't like the effect he's having on your chosen, the way they're becoming distracted, attached, less devoted to their true purpose. And right now, your nature takes a back seat to your desire to get rid of that smug, arrogant little Baanite whelp, Enver Gortash. Your granddaughter's spiteful machinations have given you an opening, but you know they're bound to run into one another eventually, and it will all start over.

The vampire is beautiful. Well-trained. Accustomed to brutality. Already purged of sympathy and compassion, eaten up inside by hatred and bitterness and harm. And immortal; able to survive the worst of your son's inclinations. At this point, he'll do.

So you redirect a nautiloid. It's not that you're showing the creature any favour - it's just pragmatism, really. He is simply a tiny piece of a very large puzzle.

And then you watch.

You watch the vampire take the spectacular murder of a young bard in stride.

You watch him identify your memory-addled, sanity-challenged offspring as the most dangerous one in their sad little group of unwashed tragedies - the strongest protector, the solution to his fear of being discarded or returned to his master.

You watch him expertly lure your progeny into a pit trap of sex and lies and manipulation, dressed up with honeyed words and an exaggerated performance of desire.

Your child comes face to face with Enver Gortash and remembers nothing - feels nothing. They only have eyes for Astarion, and you are filled with satisfaction. The vampire is pathetic and fearful now, but already he plans to take over his master's ritual, and then he will be perfectly placed to feed your child's very worst impulses, to bring out the sharpest edge of the darkness inside.

You watch the vampire say, "I want us to be real."

You watch your child happily become a glorified comfort blanket, your masterwork living weapon reduced to little more than a prey animal, a do-gooder, a sacrifice.

Watch them vow, "I will be the person you see in me."

Watch them talk the blasted creature out of going through with the ritual at all.

Watch them start fighting their own nature for the pantomime love of someone else's broken toy.

Watch them turn on you.

And you decide, with the benefit of hindsight, that Enver Gortash was not that bad, actually.

[thegnomelord]

CH:2 You Were Made For This At Least You're Good For Something

CW: NSFW, blood, gore, scars, cannon typical violence, dissociating, Mage reader, Monster cod AU, poly141, eventual poly141 X reader, reader isn't a good person, survivor's guilt, military inaccuracies. Heavy description of reader having scars, reader gets called 'sir' once but overall GN.

AO3: 13.7k words. Big thanks for @rodolfoparras and @princeguri66 for betaing for me, love you guys!

Magic is often described as a loaded gun, a double edged sword, a grenade with a missing pin, an unmarked minefield — and a thousand more little comparisons parents have come up with to frighten their children, to drill the dangers of magic into their heads. And, should their spawn unfortunately present with said aptitude, to teach them how to spend the rest of their lives vigilantly holding the leash on their emotions tight, lest the magic consume them the next time they throw a tantrum.

Your own parents spoke about magic like it was a beast sent by a vengeful God; a venomous insect hiding in your boots, a beautiful creature luring you to touch it's deadly skin, glowing eyes peering at you from the darkness, a handsome wolf stalking your red hood from the tree line. Something so desperate for a single chance to devour you. Famished. Ravenous.

What a load of shit.

—Ethereal mana rushes through your veins like water through a busted dam, your fingers forcing it to form into skin chafing ash. Large dark clouds swirl around you like a shield, stray cinders brush your feverish skin in a distorted attempt to mimic a lover's touch, smog curls around your head like blinders to focus your eyes forward so you don't need to notice if it's a combatant or a civilian your ash consumes—

If magic was half as unpredictable as people made it out to be, you would have never reached the heights you did.

—The thick disgusting scent of gas and burning human flesh tenderly presses down on your chest, sharp claws persuading you to breathe out by gently caressing the spaces between your ribs. Your breath fogs over the darkened lenses, steam rising from your chest as the generator inside churns out more mana—

What does that make you?

—Sparks nip at your heel when your body thinks of faltering, sharp needles pricking half dead nerves and commanding your limbs to move in order to evade obstacles and falling debris and whatever else is thrown at you, magic strengthening your muscles so you can rush through the streets like a forest fire—

A weapon? A fellow beast?

—Silent black flames devour the corpses your magic creates, leaving nothing behind. Stifling heat straddles your brainstem and burns away the weeds of empathy before they can spread the seeds of hesitation in your mind, isolating your heart so it remains too hot to harbor any mercy, regardless of how many lives you cut short—

Yeah, sounds about right.

—The roar of fire deafens the screams and sirens, the soft crackle of flames is indistinguishable to the crack! of breaking buildings and snapping bones. It makes it so easy to retain the single minded focus you were praised and cursed for. To remind yourself of what you are; a mage, a soldier, an Ifrit, a Red Right Hand—

What else are you good for?

You—

Breathe.

You need to breathe.

You need to think.

While you still can.

Your brain is a jumbled mess of puzzle pieces a frustrated child threw into the fireplace. Burnt edges and missing corners prevent your mind from its natural configuration and forces your thoughts into obtuse positions. It takes time and effort to open your eyes, needles of stagnated mana stabbing your irises and making what should be a pitch black room feel like you're staring into the sun. Your body feels light like you're falling, your vision swims with spots of blurriness and sharpness, the back of your throat tight in an attempt to get you to puke up your empty stomach. You only manage to cough, but the vestigial impulse gets some other thoughts to trickle from your mind.

You focus your eyes to one point and stare until the blurriness retreats to the edges of your vision and the tripling shapes solidify into one. It takes more time for your brain to understand what your eyes are seeing through the steam, but you manage to make out. . . your glowing hands. . . your knees. . . dark ash, muddied water, bathroom tiles.

Your vision improves the longer you keep your eyes open, the room steadily darkening and becoming more bearable as the stagnated mana is forced to recede.

You concentrate on what you feel; water pelts your naked body, only to sizzle and turn into steam after rolling an inch down your skin. Cool ceramic tiles brush against your spine every time you shift, rapidly warming up to your body temperature. A drizzle of discomfort nibbles on your nerves when the hot air you breathe out burns the corners of your dry lips. Your fingers feel like rusted pistons as you intertwine them and numbly watch your 'skin' bubble, and those bubbles 'pop', giving you a grim glimpse of your blackened muscle and sinew and bone before the surrounding lava covers them up.

You don't even notice the ringing in your ears until your slowly sharpening mind forces it to go away, replacing it with the sound of running water, of the ventilation fan uselessly trying to suck up the steam, of your own heart beating like a hummingbird against your ribs, woodpeckers drilling into your skull from all angles as the world becomes so fucking—

—Loud. The world is Loud. Nothing like the calm and quiet brought to you by the battlefield, nothing like the sense of safety that comes from familiarity. No. Now the world feels like a swarm of angry wasps are burrowing into your ears to build a nest in your skull, sharp pincers gnawing on your bones and flesh and nerves and—

No.

You got this far.

You're not allowed to fall back into panic.

You force your chest to expand and take in a deep, unfiltered, unrestricted, breath. Ash with the disgusting undertone of rotten eggs curls inside your nose and doesn't let anything else pass. But a small hint of you manages to register in your brain, light and calming; your body’s lackluster attempt at incense to cover up the stench of rot.

And you taste. . . a lot. Too much; morning breath, ash, smoke, blood, the peppery battery acid quality of your blood — all blended together into a disgusting cocktail tailor made for you by what's left of the butchered angel sitting on your shoulder.

You don't think when you reach out to grab the glass of whatever shit liquor past you had bought. 'Glass' is far too kind a word for the tin can you're using, but metal doesn't shatter in your burning hands like ceramic or glass.

Your head thunks against the wall as you throw it back to gulp down the alcohol before it can boil, swallowing in big gulps like it's water. Your stomach cramps, the devil's finest piss would taste better going down your throat than the booze, but it's as effective as it is disgusting and bleaches your mouth until it's the only thing you can taste — sweet relief wrapped in thorns.

You don't revel in it.

The tin can bends like playdoh as you squeeze your burning hand, quickly reddening metal molding to your palm before you crumple it into a small ball. You flick it into the corner where it becomes another piece of the small pile that's been steadily growing there over the months.

Breathing in deep makes your ribs creak and groan like rusted hinges, your lungs burn and complain as you keep the air trapped in them until they're forced to function properly and a shuddered breath escapes your parted lips. The water feels nice and a part of you wants to stay under the stream forever, a part of you would be content growing moss and listening to the soft apologies your mana murmurs as it nibbles on your blood vessels.

You would hit that part of yourself if you could.

The thinning steam urges you to move. Shifting to your knees is difficult with Atlas's burden weighing on your shoulders, forcing your fingers to find purchase in the scorched grooves previously melted in the wall. Pulling yourself to your feet causes them to grow a few inches deeper, your burning hands leaving singed handprints on the ceramic walls.

The weakness in your knees forces you to spend a few seconds just standing, watching your magic slowly start to slumber. The once runny lava consistency of your 'skin' shifts to that of cooling magma, the vast excess of loose mana still in your blood slowly coagulating atop your 'skin' in the form of large chunks of volcanic rock, little cracks remaining between them to simulate blood vessels.

Washing yourself isn't a relaxing affair in general, but it's made worse by the heavy duty soap and rough sponge you have to use in order to scrub away the grime and ash stubbornly clinging to your skin. You try not to look at your body more than you have to, your eyes transfixed on the way the dirty water carries the signs of your violence down the drain. You never get any blood on you, your fires burn too hot for that, and you don’t know if seeing the water turn red instead of black would make you feel better or worse.

The most painful place to wash is the sharp transition between mage marks and living tissue at your shoulders; magic cares little for appearances, volcanic rock abruptly transitioning to soft skin that boasts spiderweb cracks — a tell tale sign of your mana intending to spread further. The nerves there are partially eaten away too, turning your skin into a minefield of zero sensation and absolute hell when one of those nerves is prodded.

You get out when the water runs clear, the residual droplets turning to steam the second you turn off the shower. You stumble as take a few steps, bracing against the small sink next to the shower, staring at the tap to keep your gaze from doubling again.

Something gnaws on your heart as you recognize that you're standing naked in your small safehouse. You should have recovered by now, gotten your shit together and went off to carry out whatever other massacre your employer wanted to commit. Your mind, ever the problematic thing, chimes in: How improper.

Your eyes skirt to the dog tags sitting on the sink, those little plates of steel chastising you "Fuck's sake firebug, this isn't a nudist beach!" like their owners did before. . . before.

Just thinking about it gives you the phantom taste of blood and something acidic, makes you feel a ghostly ache in your bones as if your chest had been ripped open one rib at a time. Invisible glass digs into your throat as you swallow, fish hooks tug on your skin. The mirror hanging above the sink calls for you, mocks you, dares you, orders you to look at the horrid thing that replaced a sweet young child.

Burning flames greet your gaze, swallowing up every last bit of natural color in your eyes just as the hungering beast devours those stupid enough to enter its woods. And you were that fool. The raised bumps of veins and arteries snaking across your chest and throat like creeping ivy attest to that, each inch of your blood vessels meticulously, painfully, pulled from the safe depths of skin and bone to heal on the surface of your skin (or bleed and rot. You could never tell when torture turned into intended murder.)

Your body tells a tale of your survival (for whatever that's good for), most of your scars old and healed, created at a time when you didn't know how to heal yourself. Dimly glowing lines of hardened mana occasionally stretch across your skin, spiderwebs of deep cyan peek beneath your hair on one side of your head and pulse across your throat, glittering amber swirls across your side — small and pretty testaments of wounds so horrendous only magic could keep you in one piece.

An eternal flame burns in your chest, its steady unfaltering glow outlining your sternum and each rib in such clarity it's like you're a cadaver in a morgue, a textbook example of a person slowly spiraling towards lichdom. The light emanating from within you makes the jagged dark ink curving along the space of your ribs stand out like a sore thumb, D.O.D. 2016.01.01. Your fingers ache to trace the little shaky messages of not Today, Guess again, yuo wish, NO, just one more day that circle it, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

You can't sully the last few things you have left of them, you can't, you can't you can't—

Crack!

You realize you've broken the mirror when you pull your hand back and see large shards stick out between your knuckles. Little reflections of yourself continue to mock you as you pull the pieces out. It doesn't hurt, it hasn't hurt since the mage marks first cracked the pads of your fingers, though you're still unsure if it's a gift or a curse —"leave it for the scholars to bicker about" as your Commander loved to say.

A shadow flickers in the corner of your eye, almost like a silhouette of someone you think you knew. Glowing lines of a magic circle burst into the air before you can physically react, mana simmering beneath your skin as magic comes to you easier than breathing.

The hallway lights up to reveal nothing. The thing you saw was just the shadow of a tree branch moving in the wind. You unsummon your magic before it can burn anything, the dwindling sparks nipping your fingers before they’re snuffed out as a way to show your mana is not pleased by the false alarm.

There is nothing there.

You are alone.

Again.

Your phone rings, the factory setting music grating on your ears. The phone is a piece of shit Nokia brick that belongs in a museum, but it works fine as far as burner phones go. Archaic technology like this plays better with magic than the flashy electronics people use nowadays, and the fact it doesn't connect to wifi helps make you harder to track.

You use the back of your knuckle to answer the phone, luckily not needing to pick it up as your mana enhanced hearing is a lot better than human. You manage to force a rough "Yes?" out of your throat.

"Nicely done my friend." Khaled sounds pleased with the death you brought, "You put on a very nice show." The eloquent Arabic he speaks makes the praise sound even nicer to your ears, like a balm of milk and honey to soothe your mind after what you went through. You can see how he's amassed as many men as he has, you could see yourself joining him full time if you were younger and dumber.

Your thoughts sit on your tongue like hot coals, but you swallow them down. "Thank you sir." You say instead, politely. Respect for your superiors was beaten into you years ago, yet exhaustion makes your words sound far rougher than his. Thankfully you're able to keep the accent of your mother tongue from deforming the fragile vowels.

"Ever the modest one." Khaled's chuckle is deep and just at the edge of mean, the subtle change in tone making the fine hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. "I need to pick up some more toys." And by 'I' he means you.

Toys — guns, bombs, other weapons intended for mass destruction; you're not surprised he's using slang instead of saying it outright. Your employer may be an overgrown murderous warlord, but he's not dumb, there's no doubt heavy surveillance has been put on both of you and Al-Qatala as a whole after your stunt.

It makes sense why he'd want to send you for the weapon's deal instead of going himself, there's no telling when some military group or pmc will try to bushwhack them in hopes of body bagging Khaled. Hell, you'd be disappointed if the CIA wasn't already in the final stages of planning a counter terrorism measure. Nosy fucks.

"Understood sir. Send me the shopping list." You feel your brow twitch with irritation when Khaled abruptly cuts the call. A sigh escapes you; your stomach feels like a witch is using it for a cauldron, all sorts of nastiness bubbling into a disgusting brew — your body's trying to warn you of something you can't see.

Not like you listen.

Dropping the last of the mirror shards into the sink you reach over to grab the dog tags and slip the cold chain around your neck. The metal warms up quickly, becoming indistinguishable from your skin. You rest your hand over them. If you try hard enough, you can just about sense the last remaining dregs of their magic— cool water, nibbling ice, soft soil — but the rest blend together into senseless mana, nothing but whispers of the past.

16 other tags rest against your skin, your own nestled somewhere between the dead.

You should have died instead.

You tear your hand away with a scoff, shaking those thoughts off and go get dressed. You slip on your helmet last, the tension in your shoulders evaporating when your face is hidden. Your lungs stutter for a second before adapting to breathe normally. You throw a glance at the shattered mirror and this time it's the helmet that greets you; just another soldier, just a mage.

Yeah. . . that's you alright.

Your phone vibrates, telling you you've received a message.

Right. You have a job to do. Here's to hoping this one isn't your last.

You're not holding your beath.

. . .

The briefing room is silent as Laswell goes over the census: 200 confirmed dead, hundreds in serious condition, thousands more who will be affected in the coming weeks and months when the seasonal storms wash the toxins into water sources and pollute the earth. And that's not talking about the long term effects, who knows how many will be lost in the coming years trying to neutralize the poisonous magic and rebuild.

Toxic gas itself is problematic when they don't know what specific kind it is, but when it binds with loose particle magic like ash or sand it can linger for decades, eroding concrete and skin alike. A whole generation will be born in hazmat suits.

Kate finishes speaking. A minute of silence follows.

Soap takes the time to try and visualize the dead as people rather than just a statistic, but his mind falls short. His tail twitches with irritation, fists clenching by his sides; he just can't understand how one person could do all of that without rockets or explosives.

His brain births a grim thought — fire hot enough to burn through concrete wouldn't leave behind any bodies, so he can tack on several more hundred deaths to the census, ones that have no way of being confirmed, leaving families without a body to grieve over.

"As far as we know." Kate begins again, her face grim, deep dark shadows stretching beneath her eyes. Only caffeine and determination have helped chase away her exhaustion. "This was a terrorist attack organized by Khaled Al-Asad," She pulls up two pictures on the interactive board, one of Khaled, the other — the same featureless helmet they'd seen on the news. "And carried out by a mage mercenary called Ifrit. True identity unknown."

Soap's ear twitches and he tilts his head at Ghost. "Bet yeh he's an ugly focker."

Ghost's dark eyes flicker to him. "Didn't think that 'bout me did you?" He mutters, eyes returning to the screen, staring at your picture as if it'll reveal some deeper meaning; an insight into a murderer's mind. Soap holds off on doing the same, he doesn't want any of the sludge on him.

“Could also be a ‘her’.”

Their gazes turn to the two women sitting at the front, the captain and lieutenant of another pmc the US has contracted to help them deal with this problem.

The one who spoke is a woman in her late 30's, brown hair pulled in a tight bun, green eyes occasionally flickering with whisps of unnatural blue; Captain Roberts – if Johnny remembered her name correctly from orientation – continues. “Women are better at using magic, and control it with the finesse required for more complex spells.” She explains with a dismissive look, absentmindedly waving her gloved hand like they’re just insects buzzing around her head.

Yeah, Johnny doesn't like her. And it's not because she smells like sweet lotus mixed with the stench of rancid fish rotting under the sun. It's because she's as hoity-toity as every other mage he's met (thankfully he's only met a few).

The shorter woman sitting next to Captain Roberts shrugs, black hair pulled into a similarly tight bun. "A little biased there captain." Lieutenant Martinez says, her black eyes flickering to look at the monsters. "Though, I can't say it's unwarranted." He hears her mutter.

Johnny notices striped patches velcroed to their arms, 2 icy blue ones on Martinez, 3 deep blue on Roberts. Distantly he remembers them to signal the power level of a mage on the international power scale, though he's blurry on the finer details.

Johnny’s ears twitch as he hears Ghost mutter a “Fuckin’ ‘ell.” under his breath before the wraith gruffly speaks up loud enough for all to hear. “Nail Ifrit and you’ll get the chance to check for bollocks.”

Roberts turns her head to look at Ghost. Her eyes look him over and the initial scowl (which Johnny's sure she was born with) turns into something that makes Johnny's fur stand on end and gums itch with the need to bare his teeth. She opens her mouth to speak—

A low rumble wafts through the air as Price blows out a puff of cigar smoke, the soft cloud escaping through the open window but the strong scent remains. "Hush." Price's pupils are thin like needles, shutting up Roberts with one look before he looks at Kate. "What do we know about 'em?"

Kate frowns, "Not enough." She pulls up a map of the world, a red dot placed somewhere in Libya. “Ifrit first appeared on our radars 2 years ago under the employment of a Libyan warlord called Ahmed Saleh.” Next she pulls up a video, playing it. The camera work is shaky, but Soap's able to make out said warlord speaking in a language he doesn't know, Ifrit standing by his side like some freaky statue. The camera shifts to focus on the row of men behind them, all bound on their knees with bags over their heads.

Johnny knows immediately what this is.

He still flinches when glowing circles spring beneath the mens knees, violent flames shooting high up into the sky as if Ifrit just used their personal key to open Satan's backyard. The camera flickers like an old TV, catching the last few seconds of glitched dying screams and magic burning away skin and muscle before the the video ends.

"Jesus." Kyle mutters next to Soap, his clawed fingers carding through the black feathers on his other forearm in a self soothing motion. "Just. . . Jesus."

"Ah dinnae think he’ll help." Soap mutters back, nose wrinkling as if he can already smell the burning bodies.

"A few weeks after this video was taken, Ifrit went into hiding before resurfacing again under a different employer." If Kate's bothered by the public execution, she doesn't show it. "Cross referencing the attack in Uzrikstan we’ve found over 50 arson attacks with the same M.O.” More red dots spread across the world map haphazardly, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. “As well as indication of Ifrit's involvement in numerous organized crime groups. Khaled is just their latest employer.”

Ghost lets out a low whistle. "Our arsonist's been busy."

"So what?" Soap's fur bristles even more, "The torcher just pop oot like a weed aw o'a sudden an' immediately jump intae terrorism?"

"Maybe?" Kyle scratches the back of his neck. "If they're a late bloomer and unbound then it makes sense why some crime rings would want them," He turns his head to look at Captain Roberts, "Right?"

She doesn't spare him a look, chewing on her words like Kyle had put something foul in her mouth. "I suppose developing strong magic after adolescence is possible." She begrudgingly says, "And unbound magic is stronger than bound, making Ifrit look like an appealing attack dog." She crosses her arms over her chest, stroking her chin in thought.

"But unbound magic also damages to the body." Lieutenant Martinez pipes up. "And that type of mage marks would take more than just 2 years to develop even if they used magic 24/7."

"You're correct." Captain Roberts finally glances at Kyle, giving him a look as if he had asked the difference between a pug and a werewolf. "It's more likely they had magic for a while. Not to mention received training for it."

Another low rumble escapes Price's chest, the sound reminiscent of construction machinery. "How come we didn't know about the firebug earlier?" His voice is calm, making the sharp edge underneath it cut deeper.

Kate sighs, "I hate to say it, but Ifrit is good." She says solemnly. "Their magic destroys electronics, they never show their face or leave witnesses, and they manage to cover their tracks up so well that we can't find even a partial mana-cule signature on the arson attacks, the most recent one included."

Her words make little sense to him, entering Johnny's ear and exiting through the other. He remembers taking a few classes on the types of magic that can mimic explosive materials when he was doing his demolition course, but all the jargons had made his head hurt and wasn't needed in the end. His tail tucks closer to his leg. "A what?"

Captain Roberts scoffs, but her Lieutenant speaks up. "A mana-cule detector picks up the way magic that's left in a victim's body refracts light. It's specific to every mage, so, like a magical fingerprint." She holds up her gloved hand to give visual to her comparison.

Soap feels Gaz's feathers brush against him as the man folds his wings closer to his body, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at the screen. Kyle's eyes wander back to the starting image of the video where you're standing behind the warlord, mentally comparing it with the brief glimpse of you he got on the news. Something about you screams 'professional' to him, like you've done this so many times you got used to it the same way he got used to pulling the trigger of his gun.

"Ifrit doesn't look like some gang banger Khaled or some warlord picked off the street." Kyle finally says, and though he knows Laswell probably had the same thought, he still asks. "Could they be ex military or part of some pmc?"

"We're operating under this assumption, but we can't confirm anything." Kate frowns. "We're still trying to find any personal information about them."

"Getting to the important information." Captain Roberts says, giving them a pointed look. "What even is Ifrit’s level? With destruction like that I can’t imagine anything beneath L3. L4 if they’re 3 seconds away from becoming a lich or just high on Magnus dust."

"Fuck what dust?" Soap asks, but Captain Roberts just waves him off like his question is too stupid for her to answer.

"Magical crack." Ghost shrugs. "Makes the magic stronger, but also turns the mage into a firecracker."

Kate rubs her brows, a headache starting to pound behind her eyes. "By our calculations Ifrit falls into the L5 category." Her words make the rest of them go silent, but Soap just looks around confused.

"Preposterous." Captain Roberts huffs, "I can count on my fingers how many L5's there have been since Christ was born. Ifrit being one is just impossible." A deep scowl etches across her face. "At best, Ifrit is just an L3 high on Magnus dust with no regard for their body. They'll be a lich in a couple months."

"Regardless of what Ifrit is," Price speaks up, stubbing the cigar butt on the window sill and throwing it out the window. "What do we do about them?" A small bit of smoke escapes the corner of his lip, dragon fire burning hot in his chest in response to his well masked anger.

"An insider in Al-Qatala claims a weapon deal will be going down in a day." Kate swipes away the previous pictures, putting on a bird’s eye-view map of a shipping dock. 5 large warehouses circle an empty concrete space bordering the ocean, clearly long abandoned. "From what we know, Khaled has Ifrit secure most of his weapons because they’re careful. If a buyer’s even a minute late they call it all off."

"So punctual and paranoid?" Gaz sumarrises.

Ghost hums to himself. "Quite the work ethic." He side-eyes Johnny. "You could lean som'thin' from 'em."

Soap just huffs, his tail bumping against Ghost's leg in retaliation, his snagglefang showing as his lip quirks up into a small smirk when Ghost's dark eyes flicker to him.

"You’ll need to be tight, there's no telling when this opportunity will present itself again." Kate continues, ignoring them. "Team Alfa," A dot pops up on one side of the docks, Price's and Lieutenant Martinez's faces beneath it. "you'll be going in from the north. Bravo—" Another dot appears on the opposite side with Ghost's and Captain Robert's faces. "—the south."

The dots move to indicate how they're supposed to approach the position, ending up with them completely surrounding the docks. "We don't know Ifrit's full battle capabilities, so you'll need to be careful. Isolate and tire them out before attempting capture, but kill if you must." Laswell looks at them all. "We can only assume ifrit's magic is short ranged so under no circumstances do you get close to them, understood?"

"Crystal ma'am." Captain Roberts shrugs, throwing a look at the monsters at Taskforce 141. "Just let us take care of the mage and keep out of the way so you don't become collateral. I would hate to waste my time healing you." Her eyes linger on Ghost, bits of bright blue mana flickering in her eyes. "Well, most of you." Soap feels Ghost subtly stiffen next to him.

That woman's charming as a train wreck; Soap can feel himself prickle with irritation, more and more strands of fur rising to stand straight on his tail the longer he has to stay near Roberts.

Luckily they're let go early to go rest up and prepare while the two mages stay with Price and Kate to iron out the finer details of which mages which team is taking and what spells to use. Apparently everyone but Price and Kate are too stupid to understand the 'complexity' of their spells.

Soap would be insulted, but he takes the opportunity offered to him. He glues himself to Ghost's side as much as he can 'professionally', his tail curling around his leg as Johnny throws a smug look over his shoulder at Captain Roberts.

Johnny catches her looking back at him like he’s a flea ridden mutt and that just makes his tail wag. He forgets about her the moment the door of the briefing room closes, busying himself by subtly rubbing his arm against Ghost's, spreading a bit of his scent on the wraith's jacket. It's one of the few times he's glad wraith's don't have a scent — makes it easy to smell himself on Ghost.

"Someone's territorial." Gaz chirps as he joins them on Ghost's other side, feathers brushing against their backs to throw his own scent into the mix.

Ghost just looks at Soap bemused, his thick paw of a hand coming up to cradle the back of Johnny's head, gloved fingers gripping his skin like he's a puppy. "You bettah not piss on me."

Gaz breaks out into laughter and Johnny feels his cheeks grow warm. "Dirty bastard." He huffs, but stores the idea for later. "Are all mages like that?" He tilts his head back at the door.

"Uptight?" Gaz asks. "Snotty?"

"Wankers with their heads shoved up their arse?" Ghost helpfully adds.

"That's putting it brawly," Soap lets out a breath, amusement tugging at his lips as his tail wags.

"Yeah, I think it's like a requirement to be a military mage." Kyle chuckles, holding up his hand like he's judging someone's height. "You've got to be this much of a twat to join." He grins, passing them as he goes to get ready.

Soap wants to say more but Ghost's hand on his neck demands his attention, tilting his head up. His breath catches in his throat as Ghost bends down until their foreheads bonk together softly, the cool metal of the mask tickling Soap's skin. "Don't go doing anything dumb pup, olright?"

Dark eyes meet his own, a shiver runs down Soap's spine, his mouth dry as a desert when he tries to swallow the rock in his throat; Soap can't even begin to define the strange thing that was born between them on that one night in Las Almas, he can still remember the way Ghost's deep voice had kept him sane and his wolf's demands to blindly rush the enemy and get back to his pack quiet.

Johnny certainly can't define the late nights spent sharing that dog piss Simon likes drinking, nor the rough touches and hickeys they leave on the other, though they never have time to get further than that.

This feels nice too.

His hands sneak to Ghost's hips, thumbs hooking under his belt loops to pull their bodies closer, pressing his chest against Ghost's. "When have I ever done that?" He smirks, lips ghosting over Simon's masked ones.

He feels Ghost's chest rumble as the man chuckles, his other hand roughly gripping Johnny's arse. "You want a list?"

Johnny's tail wags more, "Well, I reckon I'd be up fer-"

"Oi, I’d hate to break the snogfest but we’ve got things to do!" Kyle’s chuckle breaks them up before they can do anything else. Soap turns to flip the bird to the bird, but Kyle's tail feathers have already disappeared into the changing room.

. . .

 The night is calm.

Mellow waves break against the well worn concrete walls of the docks, tree leaves softly flutter in the mild breeze, crickets and frogs sing their songs into the night air. The world itself doesn't care about you or the soldiers guarding the docks. Absentmindedly you track the movements of the men Khaled gave you, the barely noticeable crumbs of magic you stuck on them flickering at the back of your mind like dwindling coals.

All are accounted for. The night is calm. There is nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet your nerves are on a razor's edge. The relative silence scratches down your spine with long crooked claws, the calmness crackles beneath your skin like electricity. Your fingers itch with the need to tap them against your thigh, to do something; waiting has always been your least refined quality regardless of how often you needed to use it. Your body, your magic, Hell — the very essence of what you are — craves the heat of battle, the sweet lull of adrenaline's song to put your nerves at ease.

You resist moving too much. Years of training make hiding the signs of unease and nervousness easy as breathing, your body so still you could be mistaken for a statue if your chest didn't steadily rise and fall.

Taim doesn't possess your abilities. You can feel his nervousness on your tongue, like licking an old battery. His hands shift to re-adjust the hold on his gun for the 6th time in the past 10 minutes. You doubt he knows you're watching him from the corner of your eye, so the tenseness of his shoulders must be from you just being near him.

It doesn't surprise you — many countries that have had Russian or Soviet influence consider mages more monstrous than actual monsters. Mages like you are perversions of God's template, thieves who possess power not intended for you. Urzikstan is no different.

You don't point out how Taim flinches when you raise your hand to look at the time, the watch face strapped to the inside of your wrist; some habits are hard to break.

The deal is supposed to happen at 3AM, and it's 02:57 already. "The seller's taking their sweet time." You say under your breath, lowering your hand. You have half the mind to call it off and tell Khaled to teach his suppliers punctuality. Hell, you've done it before when you had less surveillance on yourself and your employer. This just feels like tempting luck.

Taim looks at his own watch and glances your way. "I understand your frustration sir, but- but we just need to wait a bit more." He absentmindedly holds up three fingers to indicate the minutes left, starting the count from his thumb.

It wouldn't be so odd if middle eastern countries such as Urzikstan didn't start counting with the pinky finger. Americans count with the index. That just leaves the entirety of Europe. You hum a low sound at the back of your throat.

"They-" Taim quickly puts his hand down and grips his gun in both hands, apparently thinking you hadn't noticed his blunder. "They should be here any min- minuta." Another slipup; the hint of a different accent softens and shortens the last vowel of the Arabic word. It narrows down a couple countries, but nothing specific.

Taurus would have made you run around the base for days if you had ever made the same mistakes, provided you survived the consequences of getting caught.

What a fucking amateur.

But Khaled isn't paying you to get rid of vermin, so you let it slide. You catalogue this moment in case you'll need it later, concentrating on the present.

The radio inside your helmet sputters to life, a rough voice speaking quickly in Arabic. "Ship incoming."

Your gaze falls on the dark ocean, mana flowing to your eyes without even having to cast a spell. It's not the same as using a mana sensing spell, those leave your head feeling like you'd volunteered it to be used as a church bell in exchange for perfect clarity of the world around you. But your sight becomes significantly brighter and sharper, enough to see the ship sailing towards the docks. It's a medium sized fishing vessel, the lights inside turned off so as not to attract too much attention, but it meets the specifications Khaled had given you.

You reach up to activate the voice receiver of your radio, pressing the button hidden on the inside of your helmet just behind the gas mask portion. "Our seller's incoming. Get the truck, secure the perimeter and keep tight." You order into the radio, cutting it off again.

You motion for Taim to follow as you walk out from your cover. You had hidden yourselves between two warehouses, their roofs extending to the sides enough to hide you from the sight of drones.

You stop a few feet from the edge of the docks, listening to the truck back up behind you as the boat slowly sails up to the edge of the dock and drops it's anchor.

You don't recognize most of the men on the boat, except for one. "Ah, Ifrit, long time no see," Victor Zakhaev greets you in Russian as he steps off the boat first. You notice a new scar across his face, but otherwise he looks good considering last you've heard of him he'd gotten himself shot and left for dead by some monster taskforce. "I am not late, yes?" He asks in English, offering you his hand.

"Right on time." You say and take his hand in a firm handshake. You try to ignore the way the touch of another human, regardless of the fact you can't really feel his touch, makes your skin crawl.

"Good, good, from you, that is a compliment." He smirks and steps to your side, giving room for his men to unload the heavy weapon crates from the bowels of the ship onto the dock. "I assure you, you'll find the garden hoses and other peashooters are all accounted for." Zakhaev makes a motion with his hand, making his workers put a heavy box onto the ground beside you. "But I know you well, you want to check the goods, yes?"

Needles prick your skin and your mind kicks itself for becoming so predictable. But Zakhaev has known you since your stint with that warlord in Libya, it's only natural he would learn a few of your habits after so long. "You would be correct." You say, your voice betraying nothing.

Zakhaev just chuckles, his workers undoing the crate's top board with his company logo printed on top of it. Inside, nestled between a sea of white packing peanuts, lies one of many M134 miniguns Khaled has been keen on getting — people of your ilk call it the garden hose for the ridiculous amount of ammunition it can spit out in a minute.

Say what you want about the yankees, but their weapons are top notch. Having once been on the receiving end of that weapon, you know first had how useful it can be; both for tearing enemy combatants to shreds and for decimating their morale.

You look over the weapon, unable to find anything wrong with it. Zakhaev takes pride in the guns he sells, you've never had any problem with them. "Looks good." You nod your head at Khaled's men and stand up. "Load them up."

You reach into your pocket and pull out a flash drive. Khaled had paid half of the price up front, leaving you to deliver the second half. Inside the flash drive are wallets with thousands of dollars worth of crypto currency. This is a smart play on your employer's part; you don't need to lug around suspicious briefcases full of cash, and there's no wire transfer some nosy agent can trace back to Khaled.

"Rest of your payment." You say simply, handing the inconspicuous flash drive to Zakhaev.

"Thank you kindly." Zakhaev slips the drive into his pocket. You watch the men carry the heavy weapon crates and put them in the truck.

Zakhaev shuffles through his pockets and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, some Russian brand. He taps the bottom of the carton on the back of his hand, offering you the stick that partially sticks out of the box. "Care to join me?" He asks, taking it in stride when you don't react. With a shrug, he puts the cigarette between his teeth. "Help an old friend, yes?"

You don't particularly like being the personal lighter for anyone, but you acquiesce — powerful and resourceful men with fragile prides are better as friends than foes; The task is so simple you don't even need to form a magic circle, a single thought making the end of the cigarette smolder before vestigial flames spark up from nothing, catching on the tightly packed dried leaves and setting them alight.

"Impressive trick." Zakhaev compliments and breathes in the nicotine, unbothered when he receives your silence again. You expect the rest of the weapons exchange to pass quietly, you and him watching from the sidelines as the men load heavy crates into the back of a truck. Your presence here is only as a guard dog.

Zakhaev surprises you by speaking up again. "Ah, there was another thing I wanted to speak to you about."

Another crate is set by your feet. You tilt your head to look at Zakhaev before your gaze flickers to the worker who pries the top board open. Inside isn't a minigun or an automatic rifle Khaled had ordered, but a sniper rifle.

"What is this?" You ask, just about keeping yourself from tensing; This is unexpected, a surprise, and surprises can get you killed faster than playing patty cake with a landmine.

Zakhaev, as if sensing your unease, waves you off. "A gift, my friend." He says in Russian, the words easy to understand. "And a. . . taste, shall we say, of what I can offer you in the event you decide to seek other employment opportunities."

Ah. So that's what this is about — he's trying to bribe you.

Now that you think about it, it isn't too surprising. He knows what you're capable of, and mages of your abilities don't grow on trees. "Is that so?" You ask in Russian, playing along as you kneel down and pick up the gun.

Your fingers move with life of their own, gliding smoothly and confidently over the metal as if you'd been born with it. The barrel is straight as an arrow, the butt fits comfortably against your shoulder, the magazine locks into place with a soft 'click', the bolt moves back with buttery smoothness and gives you sight of the live round before it's loaded into place with a second satisfying sound. It tickles your brain, that violent thing in your chest stirs with interest.

"You like it, yes?" Zakhaev chuckles, the sharpness in his eyes momentarily lost as he observes you as one does a child opening gifts on Christmas morning. "It’s a .50BMG, semi-auto, 5 rounds every 1.6 seconds, 1,800mile range, 1,319 m/s velocity, and has a 5-round detachable box mag with a muzzle brake." He details, and you mentally whistle to yourself; guns like these cost a fortune. "It's a nice gun, no?"

It is a very nice gun.

Something at the back of your mind tingles; a smoldering coal is quenched, a string snaps and sends a single needle through your amygdala. Foreign mana, as subtle as a tank, traipses at the edge of your consciousness — a fly unknowingly vibrates the threads of a spider's nest.

It is a very nice gun.

And you just found a target to practice on.

. . .

"What is Zakhaev doing here? I thought we buried him in Verdansk?" Sergeant Garrick’s voice chatters quietly over the coms as Captain Roberts makes her way through the swamp, muddy water up to her knees and insects buzzing around her head. A few of her best mages trail behind her, the rest of her team mingled between the monsters on the other side of the docks.

"Turns out our matchstick's just a magnet for wankers." Sergeant MacTavish’s voice crackles. She doesn’t stop the scoff that comes to her lips. He just has a voice that’s easy to dislike, then again she never did like mutts.

"Our mission remains the same, get Zakhaev if you can but Ifrit’s a more dangerous target." Captain Roberts wants to argue with Price. Hell, she did for nearly an hour after the briefing was done just on the subject why everyone but him and the wraith had to wear gas masks. Captain Price is too paranoid in her opinion; after the terrorist attack there's no way their target's mana reserves aren't depleted to shit, Ifrit probably couldn't put up a fight tougher than wet tissue paper but nooo, Laswell just had to pick that lizard over her own kind.

"Took care of a straggler." The deep rumble of Lieutenant Ghost’s voice sends a nice shiver down her spine. He had broken off to go ahead, briefly giving her a nice look at his ass. At least there’s one sideshow in that freakshow of a taskforce that’s easy on the eyes. She bets he would look even better without that ugly mask, all those big muscles on display and quivering beneath her…

"Alfa team in position." Price speaks into the radio.

Roberts shakes her head, refocusing on the task as she kneels in the dark water. She's partially hidden behind a rotten tree stump, but the night is dark and there's enough critters and insects in the swamp to make sensing them with mana difficult. "Team Bravo in position." She says.

"Good, stand by, we only get one chance at this." That's probably the only thing she and Price agree on. Opportunities like this don't fall into their laps often, maybe she can even nab herself a promotion if she captures both Ifrit and Zakhaev.

Curiosity tugs on her mind as she watches the weapons deal go down. She doesn’t know what she expected but this isn’t it; The last time she had seen someone capable of similar destruction, it had been a teenager in the late stages of lichdom— mind eroded, body nothing but skin and bones, magic rotting the poor girl from the inside out until all that was left was an animal in human skin.

She expected something similar, maybe worse, not for Ifrit to look no different than every other criminal piece of shit she's seen.

Unable to hold back her curiosity she hunches her shoulders and takes off her gloves. Her mage marks are extensive and ugly; reach to the first knuckle of each finger, the dried coral like texture scratching her skin as she places one hand on her face to peer between her fingers, another resting over her chest.

Captain Roberts can at least feel proud for being so magically gifted she can shorten a 40 something word incantation to just 13 measly words: "Sister of steams, daughter of oceans, give me sight to see the hidden." She can feel her mana leisurely crawl through her veins as she murmurs the spell, like squeezing honey through a cheesecloth.

The world lights up in an array of colors like a broken kaleidoscope, shapes and outlines flickering in and out as the mana inside every living creature mixes and twirls with the dark backdrop of dead mana without rhyme or reason. The sight is something humans were never meant to see, and it stabs at her eyes for even daring to look, but she can stomach it long enough to catch sight of Ifrit's mana.

Captain Roberts is disappointed to see the mana surrounding you is nothing to write home about; orange mana cleanly outlines your entire frame, barely a couple of inches thick, not too bright and not even the barest flicker in the even surface to indicate mana suppression.

The disappointment morphs into relief as she deactivates her spell — at the very least she won't need to waste her time with this monster and terrorist nonsense longer than she has to. Shame, she had been looking for a challenge—

A violent shiver runs down her spine, her heart lurches and bashes against her ribs with the feral panic of a prey animal trying to escape, cold sweat breaks out across her skin and pain blooming in her arteries as mana rushes to her fingers—

A bullet strikes the rotten stump she's hiding behind.

Magic explodes on contact.

Violent flames race to devour those still living.

. . .

You count 5 seconds between the bullet hitting it's target, the magic you imbued it with exploding, and it all going to shit.

You throw a hand over Zakhaev's shoulder and force him to the ground as the first hail of bullets comes your way. You drop to your knee just in time to avoid receiving a lead injection, the concrete behind you exploding in small puffs of dust as the high caliber bullets hit the ground or bounce off Zakhaev's boat to tear through the meat shields that are Khaled's men. You try to take a few potshots, but your position is bad and you can't tell where the shots are coming from.

You catch large elongated sticks fall from the sky and clatter to the ground. You immediately screw your eyes shut, bending at the waist to put your face parallel with the ground and pressing your hands to your ears. You avoid the flash as the stun grenades go off, but the following bang! rattles inside your ears and makes you stumble as you straighten out.

But you know this is just a distraction: beneath the whizzing bullets and echoing shots you can feel the world groan, the air shivering with disgust as magic slowly gathers at the fingertips of enemy mages. They take every precious second given to them to build and strengthen their spells, the average cast time around a minute.

You need no such preparation.

The moment you feel their spells release, like a rubber band snapping against your skin, you summon your own magic. You have neither the time nor space to produce a proper counter spell when you haven't seen your enemies casting circles, so your offence becomes your best defense — glowing circles spark across the air to shoot out violent flames, burning heat and freezing cold colliding in the crisp night air. Your magic is far superior, turning the balls of ice and water into steam.

The boundless steam floods the area and rushes at you like a stampede of frantic beasts. You pull Zakhaev close to you, shielding his fragile body from the blistering mist as it washes over you, nothing but a mild inconvenience. Your stomach feels tight, as if mocking you for not listening to your body.

At least you can be certain this isn't just some group of Khaled's enemies or gangsters that stumbled on you. The fact they're using water and ice spells means this was preplanned, they have a specific target — you.

The thought makes something inside you stir. You feel your heart begin to beat a little faster, a little harder, a little louder, banging against your ribs in the slow start of a war march to rouse the slumbering beast in your veins. Enticing it with what it you craves.

You hear Zakhaev say something but his words fail to reach your ears, not that you'd be able to respond with how your tongue feels like it's made of lead. Your body always does this; jaw tensing to keep you quiet, muscles relaxing in preparation, the lingering vestiges of nervousness evaporating to clear your mind so you can focus. Something in that fucked up brain of yours makes you switch to the first language you ever learned — violence.

Your grip is ironclad as you throw Zakhaev over your shoulder like he's a sack of potatoes, summoning more spells for cover instead of listening to his cursing. Even more steam blankets the ground, joining alongside gunfire and magic to create a disorientating shroud you're very familiar with. You easily duck and weave through Khaled's men, catching glimpses of enemy bodies moving beyond the steam as you head to the truck, hoping to use it for momentary cover.

Throwing Zakhaev into the back of the truck with the weapon boxes you skirt to the front of the vehicle, the sharp bang! of your fist knocking against the metal door scaring the shit out of the driver. You meet the man's eyes through the darkened lenses of your helmet, giving a hand gesture for him to drive.

Hummingbirds peck at the back of your skull, giving you ample warning to jump out of the way even before a circle spreads beneath your feet. A shard of ice erupts from the ground where you'd just stood, thankfully avoiding the car and giving the driver further incentive to get the fuck out. Ants crawl down your spine in another warning, and you saw enough of the previous circle to disrupt the one that appears behind you, a few orange lines springing up in the neat blue circle to make it fizzle out and send the half built spell right back at the caster.

With the primary targets secured you can turn your full attention on the attackers, your gloves smoldering as hot mana rushes to your fingertips. You hear pebbles crunch under a boot while you summon your own magic circles, the return of that tight feeling in your stomach making you break concentration just enough to catch sight of one of Khaled's men in your periphery.

You notice the gun aimed at you a second too late.

Bang!

Pain flares through your shoulder, your body moving on its own as you throw yourself to the side to avoid another round. You don't need to think for your flames to burst beneath the feet of your attacker, using the distraction to retreat into the space between two warehouses, giving yourself better cover. Mana rushes to the hole in your shoulder, drops of molten metal leaking from your wound when you lean forward, your clothing greedily drinking up your mana saturated blood and sticking to your skin.

Your magic repairs your body as quickly as you're injured, pain rapidly fading away until only the dull sting of betrayal remains. Like a sacrificial lamb, it catches the deadly attention of the thing slumbering in your heart.

It wakes up angry and feral and oh so hungry.

Fangs of freezing heat tenderly grip your heart, ravenous nothingness once birthed by your desperation now begs and demands for your will to give it shape. How can you refuse?

Flames spark at your palms, burning away the thick material of your gloves to free your hands. A freezing chill gnaws on your burning fingers and harkens the arrival of something that slinks out of your heart like crude oil, bulging and molding itself to your veins as it crawls to your palms. Darkness consumes the orange glow of your magic, leaving behind little pitch black candlelight flames burning at your fingertips. 'Flames' is a bad word to describe them when they suck the light around them; it's like looking at black silhouettes in the approximation of fire, painted straight onto reality by a child's hand.

A magic circle spirals beneath you, glowing bright blue and stinking of enemy magic. You can just about hear the chanting of spells near you, more circles appearing on either side of you, trapping you.

"Beelzebub," You mutter under your breath, not out of need — you've long since mastered the art of wordless magic — but out of respect. "Devour."

2 measly words is all it takes for the black fires to shoot straight up like the fangs of a beast, leaping off your fingers in wide arcs and creating a quickly expanding perimeter around you, circling like sharks as they rush outwards. The meticulously crafted circles shatter like glass, hundreds of little shards of visible mana fluttering around you for a second before they're swallowed up by the black fires.

Beelzebub is a ravenous spell, lashing out at everything around you with the sole intent to consume, to devour every little bit of mana in an endlessly fruitless attempt to sate its hunger. Regardless, if said mana has already been made into a spell, of it's still inside a person.

You don't see it, but you know the exact moment Beelzebub finds the enemy mages, screams of horror and pain filling the air as black flames descend on them like bloodhounds. You can feel Beelzebub's freezing claws tear into them, leaving the flesh unharmed but tearing their mana out bit by bit, devouring it, syphoning the power back to you.

Once, long ago, the acrid rush of foreign mana through your system would have knocked you on your ass, now it just forces you to sway and lean against the warehouse wall. Long ago, the way stolen mana gnaws on your veins and claws at your chest for escape would have left you writhing on the floor, but now you can barely feel it. Your stomach cramps, the urge to vomit still as strong as it was back then, your senses registering all the rot; people don't think about how many forms rot can take — decaying kelp, festering flesh, acid rain, gangrene, moldy wall paper — hundreds of little deaths making up the very essence mages depend on.

Your body begs to use magic before you explode, muscles tensing, chest fluttering, ribs squeezing down on your lungs in an attempt to keep the stolen mana imprisoned. Sweet relief floods your mind as the searing heat of your own magic pushes the stolen mana through your veins, herding it into your palms where you can easily reshape it into something familiar to you: Ash.

Pushing off the wall you rush into the open, using Beelzebub's flames to burn the lines of the attack circle into the ground. The thinning steam lets you catch sight of enemies rounding the warehouses in front of you, likely human or monster since Beelzebub would have taken mages closest to you out of commission. You don't ponder this further, the second the final line is drawn you use Beelzebub as a transition point and push all the stolen mana out.

The docks erupt in a puff of disorientating ash. You don't waste time waiting for someone to fire the shot needed to ignite your magic, falling to your knee as you punch the ground. All it takes is for the chips of volcanic rock along your knuckles to scrape against the concrete for a spark to form.

The resulting explosion is never pleasant.

The sudden surge of light and the loud bang! leaves you disorientated for a few seconds, your skin dry yet clammy as if you has just got sprayed by a flash flood of boiling water. Tiny chisels pick at your bones as you stumble to your feet, trying to sculpt you into something holier than what you are.

But you can't complain when the same explosion tears through soldiers like they're paper, not even leaving behind blood to stain you when the harsh heat cremates the bodies closest to you. Your lungs struggle to get in a good breath, the stench of smog and burning meat passing through the filter and clinging to your tongue. You can hear your enemies coughing, you can feel them moving through the smog in search for you, but your ash is so thick it completely hides you, giving you a few seconds to think.

Thousands of thoughts roll around your skull, but one stands out — Khaled finally betrayed you.

Fire shoots out from beyond the ash at you. Your body moves instinctively as you throw your hand up to guard your head and turn away. The hot flames lick harmlessly over your skin, too similar to the heat inside you to harm you, so all it can do is burn your outer clothes until your shirt and bulletproof vest peek out beneath the large smoldering holes.

You get a second to catch sight of sharp curving horns and predatory blue eyes staring at you from the ash, the smog shifting around a rapidly approaching figure. Next thing you know something hard hits you right in the stomach, fast and unyielding like a truck.

Your skin and muscles ripple under the fist, you feel and hear your ribs crack! under the immense strength right before the punch flings you back like a ragdoll.

You crash into a warehouse wall, the metal denting in the shape of your back as more bones crack. Pain flares through your body, your tongue, caught between your teeth, bleeds peppery acrid blood into your mouth. You gasp for breath as much as you're able to, chest weakly fluttering like a butterfly's wing as you find yourself unable to take in a deep breath.

Then a sickening crack! rings right behind your eardrums as your magic pulls out the rib piercing your lung, pushing on it until it fully expands and you can breathe again. Heat slithers through your body to glue together broken bones and torn muscles, repairing you as if nothing ever happened. You're on your feet in seconds, the ripple in the ash giving you enough warning to lunge out of the way before another stream of flames can wash over you. You send your own in return, a magic circle forming in front of you before spewing out a beam of concentrated flame. The force behind it causes the lingering ash to disperse, giving you better sight of your opponent—

Dragon.

Of course your luck has to be so dogshit you'd get a fucking dragon sicked on you. What's next, a damn stone-skinned goliath? Maybe a leviathan to really fuck you over?

You bend your knees as you summon a magic circle beneath your feet. The ash erupts with such force it sends you careening through the air, launching you into the ash free air above you. You're close enough to a warehouse to grasp the jutting out metal sheet of the steel roof, your muscles tensing as you haul yourself up.

Quickly wiping away the ash stuck to your helmet lenses your eyes instinctively look up to search the sky, the bright spotlights of the docks making the night so much darker. If a dragon's after you then there's a high likelihood there are more monsters, and those rarely come without at least one flyer in their team.

The subtle, unnatural, flutter of distant stars across the dark sky gives you enough incentive to throw up a fiery shield, retreating further back onto the roof. Feathers sharp as knives burn to cinders in your flames, some stragglers imbedding themselves near your feet, easily slicing through the steel roof; Harpy.

You can't tell what kind it is, probably a common variety, but it doesn't really matter so long as you can clip the bird's wings.

Mana floods into your eyes as you use a mana sensing spell. The sky lights up like an aurora borealis, the ground below explodes in all sorts of nauseating colors that makes a headache pound against your skull. But it's worth it when the body of the harpy lights up like a lightbulb, contrasting sharply against the sky, it's wings making for the perfect target.

You know harpies are fast fliers. It forces you to give up some firepower in exchange for a homing ability. Changing a spell is an easy thing to do, mentally erasing and adding a couple of lines in your circle before you summon it. You disable your mana sight so you don't blind yourself and let your magic loose, firing off 4 tightly packed balls of fire in rapid order.

You don't stick around to see it try to dodge your magic, turning to your heel to race across the roof after you flood the earth bellow with even more ash. You need to escape; you could try to kill the monsters, you doubt they have anything worse than that dragon, but you have bigger problems — you can't let an enemy like Khaled live.

Something catches your leg like you're a rabbit in a snare, an unforgettable cold creeping up your skin to gnaw on your brain. Ethereal shadows curl like ropes around your ankle and pull you down before you can burn them away. You tumble to the steel roof and blindly summon flames around you, rolling to your side the moment you get yourself free and just barely managing to avoid your own shadow trying to skewer you.

You burn away the shadowy spikes sticking out from the ground, flames flaring up around you to momentarily distract your opponent as you get to your feet. Your eyes settle on the one that tripped you; big fucker, tall and wide, half wreathed in shadows, a skull mask peering at your from the darkness. Your spine feels like it wants to crawl out of your back, the silence of the grave ringing in your ears when you go to sense his magic and pick up nothing.

The same nothing that makes up Beelzebub. Furious. Hungry. Dead.

Wraith. You are facing a Wraith.

Not a goliath, not a leviathan. Worse. Much, much worse.

You have no shot at outrunning that thing when your own shadow can betray you, not to mention the wraith's range is far larger than yours in the dead of night. You have no choice but to charge at him, a circle forming beneath your heel and ash bursting out to launch you forward, your magic burning hot and bright to produce as much light as you can in an attempt to limit the shadows he can use.

Flames wreathe your fist as you throw a punch to his side, your sudden advance taking him off guard just enough for you to hit him, fire eating away at tactical gear to gnaw on the dead flesh. It forces a grunt out of him before shadows spew out from where you hit him to engulf your arm, leaving you open for a sharp knee to the gut. Your hands flare up, volcanic stone melting into active lava to burn away the shadows holding you. A pillar of flame erupts between you two to force him back, but whips of shadow shoot through the fire in quick retaliation. You duck and roll, adrenaline rushing through your veins like a feral hound as you charge at him again.

Shadows and flames are both volatile and taxing, making you two employ similar tactics: rush and overwhelm your opponent. You have to admit, the wraith is fucking good; he's not an oaf despite his size, using it to his advantage and giving you no reprieve from the constant jabs, trying to bully you into a position where you'd be open for his shadows to pierce your flesh.

But you're faster, ducking and weaving between his blows, mana pulsing through your blood and strengthening your muscles when they think of failing you down. You can almost hear Jackal shouting at you for being too slow.

Your flames are an extension of you, you trust them to clash with his shadows so you can focus purely on the Wraith. You can tell he's getting annoyed when you duck under another swing and jab your elbow into his ribs, the un-melted rocks covering your joint much more painful than actual bone. And that's before magic shoots out from your elbow, flames burning away both of your clothes and creating a sizable blistering wound on his side.

"Fucker," His shadows flare out to put out your flames, "Stay still." You catch a hind of a British accent in his rough voice, unable to get any more as liquid shadows roll of his shoulders and shoot out at you. You're forced to stumble back in an attempt to avoid the shadows trying to claw your face off, your heel ending right on the edge of the roof.

There's a small space between the edge you're standing on and the start of the roof of the warehouse adjacent to this one, the space big enough for you to fall through if you're not careful. The fall itself wouldn't be pleasant either. Your jaw clenches harder and you swing your arm down in an arch, summoning dozens of palm sized circles and shooting out bolts of concentrated flame through the shroud of darkness. Some of them hit him and force black smoke to fizzle out from the wounds you inflict on him, his shadows repairing the walking corpse the same way your magic does to you.

That's not good. While you could go hours, you'll run out of the mana you'll need to take out Khaled if you continue this attempt to put the wraith down. Beelzebub's cold flame simmers in your heart, begging to be set free. You'd rather not use it again when the closest mana source is a wraith — a dead thing full of unfiltered rot — god forbid it triggers the only spell you've sworn not to use, but you don't think you have many other options.

Just as Beelzebub readies to crawl from your heart something else grabs your foot, sharp claws digging into your skin and jerking you down. You buck forward and nearly fall face first, throwing your head to look at the thing that's caught you. A man has half hoisted himself up on the roof, clothes torn and barely hanging on to his frame, a gas mask obscuring his face, one clawed hand gripping the steel to keep himself up as the other has your leg in an iron grip that leaves your bones groaning.

You notice the man's elongated ears and gleaming blue eyes as those of a werewolf. Those blue eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when you summon a magic circle point black with his head, the reflective orange glow of your magic swallowing up all the color his eyes.

Shadows shoot out into the space between his head and your circle, devouring the ball of flames you shoot out so the worst the wolf gets is a face full of smoke and singed hair. You turn your body back to face the wrath, throwing up both hands to summon different circles to take both out, but you're too slow. Whips of shadow shoot out and hit you dead center in the chest. The force sends you crashing back, the dumb wolf holding onto your leg pulled down with you.

You crash through the window of the other warehouse and straight down to the ground. The fall forces a loud wheeze from your lungs as large glass shards embed themselves into your back and shoulders where the bulletproof vest doesn't reach. Your ribs crackle like popcorn as magic heals them, but the pain from constantly getting them broken and repaired is starting to linger.

Dark brown fur flickers in the periphery of your vision, the sensation of a heavy body bearing down on your own snapping you back to action. You throw your arm up, the sharp fangs meant for your throat biting down on your forearm. You don't feel pain there, but a sick sense of satisfaction bubbles in your stomach as you get the first row view of your assailant registering the blistering head of your mage marks against the tender flesh of his mouth.

He yelps like a kicked dog as he releases your forearm. With a grunt you grip his shoulders, the patches of fur there smoldering the few brief seconds it takes you to gather enough strength to throw the heavy mutt off you. You stumble to your knees quickly, forced to dampen your healing abilities. The glass shards dig deeper into your muscles as you move, but the threat of them exploding from the heat of your magic prevents you from doing healing your wounds; the best you can do is dull the pain.

The warehouse is dark, but the mana in your eyes gives you a rudimentary night vision, letting you see the werewolf scramble to his own feet, spitting saliva and curses at you, "Aw ye fockin' bawbag! I-"

The rest of his words fail to reach your brain as you register the ignited remains of your ash blanketing the ground, making it impossible to see your feet bellow your knees. The scent of melting steel and smoke invades your nose, your mind taking this as the most opportune time to replace the metal ceiling high above you with hundreds of feet of rubble. Your chest tightens, the wide walls of the warehouse closing in until you feel like there's no space to move.

You're trapped. Again.

Your eyes flicker around in search for an escape, flames sparking from your fingers to burn all the way up to your shoulders, your mage marks burning hot and bright in the darkness. There! — at the very back of the warehouse you spy a motorcycle, your way out. Only a werewolf stands between it and you. It's true what Taurus used to tell you: freedom is a rope and God wants you to hang from it.

Steeling yourself, your hands reach out to grasp the knives you keep strapped to your shins, a subtle shift of the handles in your palms letting your magic flow freely into the steel.

Let him try to stop you.

. . .

Soap 's hackles raise, his fur feeling like it wants to leap off his tail. Such a deep and strong stench of rot permeates his senses his mind thinks he's the one decaying for a second. His eyes focuse on you as flames coat the knives in your hands and artificially extend the blades to give you better reach. Laswell's voice replays in his mind, telling him not to get close. Hell, he swears he can he can hear his ma's voice call him a bloody idjit for thinking of rushing at the fucking demon.

But his body still shifts further, bones snapping and reforming, muscles growing and the tattered remains of his shirt snapping off his torso as his body doubles in size. He can see his glowing eyes reflect in the tinted lenses of your mask before he rushes at you, body low to the ground before he leaps, claws bared.

You sidestep at the last second and raise your arm, the artificial blade of flames licking a blistering cut across his side. Pain shoots up his spine, his blood literally boiling as the fire both cuts him and cautarizes the wound.

"Focker-" He yelps and drops to all fours to dodge a second slash, leaping up and swinging his arm in an uppercut. His claws cut into the Kevlar as they scrape against the bulletproof vest instead of your skin, snagging on something around your neck and pulling it with him as you lean down and duck back to create distance.

Johnny doesn't get to check what it is when you immediately retaliate by throwing your knife at him. He quickly pockets what he got off you and tries to avoid the weapon but it still hits him in the shoulder, hot flames burning at his skin to let the metal slide in deeper. "Bastard-" He snarls but before he can do anything you're next to him, ripping the knife from his shoulder as you duck past him to slash at the back of his knee.

Soap yelps from the pain as he tumbles forward, turning his body as he falls to roughly swipe at you with his superior reach. The force behind his swing makes you stumble, giving his body the few seconds it needs to regenerate. He rolls to all fours, muscles tensing to lunge again— a sense of wrongness shoots down his spine, forcing him to pause.

A pillar of flames erupts from the ground where he would have been had he lunged at you, the bright light blinding him. When he can see again, he catches your form on top of one of the shipping containers, magical circles appearing as you run across the container to pelt him with balls of concentrated ash. The balls explode in large puffballs of ash as they hit the ground, his mind urging him to move to avoid getting a face full of ash. "Aw no yer fockin' not." He mutters under his breath, taking a few quick and wide steps before he leaps onto the shipping container to escape the suffocating smog, racing after you on all fours.

This proves to be a mistake as you suddenly turn around, thrusting your hand out to cast a giant circle right in front of his eyes. Claws digging into the metal Soap throws himself to his side just as a beam of flames shoots out, singeing his furry tail and forcing a strangled gasp out of his lips as a bit of his thigh gets caught in the blast of fire.

He crashes to the concrete ground, the scent rot curling in his nose as the ash swirls over him, but can't reach his lungs thanks to the gas mask. Johnny's leg muscles twitch, his though skin blistered and red like a tomato, the tattered remains of his pants partially burned into his skin. He struggles to get to his knees, pain stabbing his skin as his body tries to heal, watching through blurry eyes as you reach your target — the motorcycle.

The engine revs to life and you get on it without wasting a second. A violent sensation rushes down his spine as you summon another circle, this one so big it stretches across the entire back wall of the warehouse. In a second the metal heats up to the point it's glowing, solid steel turning into molten slag and dropping to the ground like melting snow. Soap's mind stutters when you flip him off before racing away, shouting and gunfire audible but quickly growing quiet as you get away.

Fucking Bastard.

"So- Soap! H-ghr!- ow co-kghr-ppy?" Price's voice crackles through the radio, barely understandable thanks to how much magic is floating around him.

He groans, sucking in a sharp breath. "Still alive." He grinds out. Rapidly approaching footsteps make him stumble to stand, a threatening growl erupting from his throat.

"Just me." Ghost's voice makes him instantly calm down. His body presses against Johnny's and Soap lets himself put his weight on Ghost. "You broken?" Ghost asks, slipping Johnny's arm over his shoulder and gripping his waist, easily holding him up despite Johnny being nearly twice his size currently.

Johnny tries to breathe in deep with the gas mask restricting his lungs, "Just me pride." He glances down to his leg, the wound glistening with clear fluid and still blistered, his healing factor not even making a dent in it. "Fucker got me good." His ears twitch,

"We'll track 'em down." Ghost grunts as he helps Soap limp out of the ash filled warehouse, safe from the magic as he doesn't need to breathe. "I stuck a tracker, they're not getting far."

"Fockin' hope so, ah got a score to settle an' the bawbag flipped me off for fuck—" A thought comes to him. The tattered remains of his pants have pockets high up so he doesn't tear them when he transforms. He reaches into the pocket and pulls the thing he'd accidentally nicked off you. Johnny lifts it up so both of them can see the chain hanging off his fingers, a little more than a dozen dog tags dangling from it.

Even with the gas mask obscuring part of his face, Ghost knows Johnny's smirking. "Bet you Laswell will love this."

Tag list: @resident-cryptid @diejager @lovingtyrantkitten @lieutnt @lilpothoscuttings @krystiannng @crankyweasel @ashy-kit @fyolaizs @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aldis-nuts @whoislucas @birdiiiiiiiiiii

Masterlist; Chapter 1 <- Chapter 2(you are here) -> Chapter 3

[imsosleepyofyourbull]

This is an impulsive draft of a scene I thought up based on @orange-artist‘s Time Travel AU of the Kamaboko Squad… if you read this, know that I love your art and that I genuinely can’t stop thinking about it. Please enjoy the hyper-fixation soup of words that I call my unedited writing!

“Kanata and Kiriya,” Kagaya gasped, his usually gentle and composed features overrun with surprise as he desperately hoped he had not misheard them. “How… how many of the children did you say survived this year’s Final Selection?”

“Of the thirty-three test takers, thirty-three have passed and will continue to serve the Demon Slayer Corps,” Kanata replied dutifully.

“Of those thirty-three,” Kiriya continued after, already anticipating their father’s next question. “Five were noted to be especially skilled.”

“The independent swordsman who developed his own breathing style, Hashibira Inosuke.”

“The independent swordsman who does not use a breathing style, Shinazugawa Genya.”

“The youngest student of the retired Rumbling Pillar Kuwajima Jigoro, Agatsuma Zenitsu.”

“The newest student of the retired Water Pillar Urokodaki Sakonji, Kamado Tanjiro.”

“And the only student of the current Insect Pillar Kocho Shinobu, Tsuyuri Kanao.”

Kiriya gave their father a moment to commit the different names to memory before concluding, “the remaining twenty-eight state one or more of these five had saved their lives at least once and stayed close by until they were healthy enough to survive the rest of the week. We saw each of them waiting at the edge of the forest for the rest of the stragglers before passing themselves. Additionally, the Kasugai Crows we sent on a final expedition of the forest afterward reported that only one or two of the demons were left alive.”

Kagaya had believed the Miracle Selection to be a once in a lifetime phenomena — marked by a lonely gravestone in their strange family’s shared cemetery and the memory of a peach colored fox wielding violent waters in defense of its peers.

Unimaginable, and unrepeatable.

He was right, but only because this Miracle Selection was nothing like the first. This one was intentional and decisive and everything that his family made of blood, bone, and steel had been waiting for. The beginning, or perhaps just the first visible omen, of a change in the very course of the world that Kagaya had been unable to foresee until it had already happened. Was it any coincidence that there were thirty-three survivors specifically? That, of those thirty-three, five of them in particular had saved the rest?

The Ubuyashiki were superstitious by nature; marrying their heirs to the daughters of priests and teaching their children to create rings of salt around their beds when they wanted some extra protection at night. The importance of the numbers three and five were not lost on him. With the three sacred treasures and the five directions (the five senses) marking their way, there was no question as to what he must do. Kanata and Kiriya know it too, or they would’ve sent a crow instead of making a personal report.

“Tell our most reliable kasugai to follow the five children you just mentioned,” he ordered Kanata, “they don’t have to be especially quiet… though I would appreciate it if they were undisruptive.”

He could not see her, but he knew that she gave him a solemn bow before turning to leave.

For Kiriya, “I need a missive to be sent to all of the currently active Pillars as well as the retired Rumbling and Water Pillars for a meeting at the northwestern estate three months from now.”

“Understood.”

The tide of change was fast approaching, and he knows that it will spell the end of this centuries long battle against the night. Kibutsuji Muzan will not live to see the next era — that, he promises.

(What he does not know just yet is that his chosen children have already sat on the horizon of a demon free world, and they know that they cannot afford to fail twice. Once was enough.)

[awinterrosesstuff]

I don't think we talk enough about the complexity of Eddard Stark.

Ned is the second son of the powerful house of the North. He wasn't supposed to rule, but to fight. He was raised to lead battles, to second his brother, Brandon. Then, his sister Lyanna got kidnapped, Brandon went to the capital to ask for the return of his sister, Rickard went also to the South to help his eldest and they both died there, killed by the king himself. Then Aerys asked for his head and Jon Arryn refused and declared war.

(Kinda ironic that the rebellion is called Robert's rebellion when in truth, it was Jon Arryn who made the first act of rebellion by refusing his king and calling the banners. I know in the end, it got that name because Robert became king and I've always found it interesting.)

Imagine how Ned felt when he learnt that the king Aerys was ready to erase House Stark, by ordering the head of one of the last heirs. Lyanna was lost in the south, with the prince. Probably Aerys would have asked for Benjen's head too...

But Ned did his duty, he called the banners and married Catelyn to unite the North and Riverrun. Then he fought alongside Robert and went to Kingslanding, discovering the sack of the capital and then his first disappointment with Robert... Robert wasn't horrified at the sack and the killing of Elia's child. Duty and honor are important to Ned (interesting that Ned fits so well the words of Tully's house). After other disagreements, he left to find Lyanna... and his sister was dying when he found her.

There is lots of trauma in Ned because of that war. He lost almost all of his family. When he returned to Catelyn, he came back with Jon (a child he decided to take with him because of love) and found his heir, Robb. Catelyn and him didn't have a great relationship then (Catelyn quite liked Brandon), and the presence of Jon made it worse. A few words after his return, Benjen left for the Night's watch.

Ned only started to rule Winterfell and already had lof of grief and trauma.

I'm not going to describe the rest of his background, it's quite developed and detailed. But I think GRR Martin did a great job with Ned. You can see his trauma, his doubts and his inferiority complex. He's torn apart between his family, his love for Robert, his duty and most importantly his honor. Everything is quickly translated in the way he talks about his brother :

Brandon. Yes. Brandon would know what to do. He always did. It was all meant from Brandon. You, Winterfell, everything. He was born to be a King's Hand and a father to queens. I never asked for this cup to pass to me.

Even after years of leading Winterfell, he still doesn't feel he's right for the role. Or at least, he thinks his brother would have made a better job. He's probably bitter too and has the survivor's guilt. In my humble opinion, for all we know, I'm not sure I agree with this "statement". Brandon was impulsive, hot-tempered and quite arrogant. He's said, by Catelyn, to be charismatic. But he doesn't sound like someone who would be good at ruling, at fighting definitely, but ruling ?

And when Cersei told him he should have taken the throne, instead of Robert, he answered that :

I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine, but that was not one of them.

It's true he made mistakes (he's human after all), but are they worse than Robert's mistakes ? Ned doesn't have this belief he's fit to rule neither the North or the seven kingdoms. He ruled the North and accepted to be the Hand's king not because he likes it, but because of his duty and honor. And even when he's in conflict with Cersei, he stills cares about it. He offers Cersei to leave with her children - because he refuses to harm a child - tells Stannis of him being the natural heir to Robert and refuses Renly's aid to take the Lannister's children as hostage. The only time he firmly goes against Robert is when he's plotting to kill Daenerys, a child.

(Note that Robert also thinks Ned should have ruled the kingdom instead of him. At least, he's aware of his flaws.)

He doesn't want to see the horrors of the past repeating themselves. Horrors he had witnessed. And he has a lot on his shoulders : ruling the kingdom (because Robert doesn't care about it and doesn't have the decency to do his duty), searching for informations about Jon Arryn, raising his daughters etc. You can see his trauma in the way he never planned for betrothals for his children (Robb was 14 at the beginning of the story). None of his children were fostered. Seems like he wants to keep his family around him as much he can. You also see it in the way he named his children (Jon for Jon Arryn, Bran for his brother and Rickon for his father). But when Robert, the only person he loves as much as his family, comes to him, he can't refuse. Even when his family was grieving, his wife crying for Bran, he still took his daughters with him and left with Robert. Plus he feels "obligated" to search the truth about Jon's death. Or the way he loves both of his daughters, but can talk to Arya and can't talk to Sansa only because of his trauma concerning Lyanna.

I'd like to add many people noticed Ned's honor, from Robert, Baelish, Stannis to Jorah. My favourite is probably this one from Robert

You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark.

When Ned told Robert didn't know Lyanna, he's right. But it seems Robert didn't know Ned that much either. Because Ned lied twice for love, to protect Jon from Robert's wrath (if we consider Jon is indeed Rhaegar's son) and to protect Sansa from the Lannister. His honor was more important than his life, but less important than his daughter's life. He isn't afraid of death, but cares more about his family. Yeah I think Family, duty & honor fits him quite well, maybe even better than the words of his own house...

[maxdibert]

I've been thinking about how Severus gets treated as a "bad victim" because he fought back, and I just realized something. Lily could be considered a "perfect victim", in a way. She didn't fight back against Voldemort, she simply chose to sacrifice herself. I know she would never be able to win, but it's weird that she didn't get a chance to fight to protect her baby. I guess that's another way to turn her into a saint-like figure: a self-sacrificing woman who is willing to accept death.

And I'm not saying Lily's actions aren't good. Her sacrifice is undeniably brave and selfless, but it’s disappointing that she is defined by her choice to die for her son rather than by a will to fight and live for him. She really seems like a perfect victim: pure and passive, more like a symbol than a person.

I wholeheartedly agree with your observation. Society often constructs narratives around victimhood that hinge on the expectation of passivity, purity, and self-sacrifice, thereby creating a rigid dichotomy between victims who conform to these ideals and those who defy them. Lily’s decision to sacrifice herself for her son, while undeniably heroic and selfless, has come to define her legacy as one of sanctity rather than as a person with agency and complexity. This binary view not only simplifies her character but also undermines the notion that there are multiple valid responses to violence and oppression.

The double standard in how we perceive and treat victims is deeply ingrained in our social and cultural fabric. In many instances, victims who actively resist or defend themselves are unjustly labeled as "bad victims." This characterization is problematic because it implies that the act of self-defense diminishes the victim’s experience rather than acknowledging the natural human impulse to protect oneself. The narrative suggests that only those who remain passive and accept their fate deserve sympathy and respect. However, this perspective is both narrow and unjust, as it fails to recognize that every victim’s response is valid, context-dependent, and deserving of empathy.

This social double standard reveals a broader pattern of victim blaming, wherein individuals are judged not by the cruelty of their oppressors but by their own actions in the face of adversity. When victims do not conform to the idealized image of purity and passivity, they often face skepticism, blame, and even shame. This phenomenon extends beyond fictional narratives and is evident in real-world situations involving domestic abuse, sexual assault, and systemic discrimination. Survivors who choose to defend themselves are sometimes criticized for their assertiveness, as if their natural instinct to resist somehow undermines their legitimacy as victims. Such responses, born out of survival and resilience, should be celebrated rather than condemned.

The stigmatization of victims who do not adhere to the "perfect victim" archetype reflects a deeper societal discomfort with complexity and individuality in responses to harm. By upholding a rigid standard of victimhood, society not only minimizes the struggles of those who resist but also perpetuates a damaging myth that passivity is the only marker of true suffering. This expectation can lead to secondary victimization, where individuals who actively defend themselves or pursue justice are further marginalized and blamed for provoking their own victimization. Recognizing the legitimacy of all responses—whether they involve quiet endurance or courageous defiance—is essential for fostering a more compassionate and understanding community. In doing so, we acknowledge that the impact of violence is not diminished by the choice to fight back, but rather, is a testament to the complexity of human survival.

So while Lily’s self-sacrifice is emblematic of noble love, it also reinforces a narrow definition of victimhood that can be harmful. The tendency to revere only the "perfect victim" inadvertently delegitimizes the experiences of those who choose to fight back or assert their rights in the face of injustice. This double standard not only perpetuates victim blaming but also imposes an unfair burden on individuals to conform to an idealized narrative of suffering. Every victim’s response, whether marked by passive sacrifice or active resistance, carries its own weight of pain and valor. It is imperative that society moves beyond these reductive labels, recognizing that the strength to resist is not a flaw but a profound testament to the human spirit. Only by embracing the full spectrum of responses to victimization can we truly honor the resilience and dignity of every individual affected by violence and oppression.

The discourse on victimhood must evolve to embrace the full range of human reactions in the face of harm. By dismantling the rigid expectations of what it means to be a victim, we can begin to alleviate the undue pressure placed on survivors to conform to an ideal. Acknowledging the courage inherent in both resistance and self-sacrifice not only enriches our understanding of trauma but also fosters a more inclusive, empathetic society that honors every individual’s journey. Every act, regardless of form, embodies a profound human truth.

[turbulentscrawl]

Luchino Diruse General HCs

The time has finally come. I have a LOT to say about Luchino. This covers both his survivor and hunter forms, and it might be a bit jumbled because I had so many thoughts to try and organize.

-The exact subject of the Professor’s research is left in the air, but given his focus on venom and poisons, and the necessity of testing them on animals, I’m guessing he worked in toxicology. He likely helped to develop antidotes and other products from the substances he and his colleagues studied—and taught students about these subjects in the university laboratory—as well as had a general interest in reptile biology and genetics.

-While Luchino was a bit too open to self-testing during his venom and toxicology research, he did not willingly take the mutated reptile’s venom. The information provided for Luchino doesn’t specifically say that the venom was forced on him…but Luchino’s experiment report from his first manor game describes him as “Vigilant” and as having a “moderate thirst for knowledge.” He was also the only one to survive, due to his curiosity and his respect for potential danger. Because of these, I find it unlikely that he would let a mysterious, mutating reptile bite him. When he self-tested venom before, it’s said he always had antidotes/antivenoms within reach. This just isn’t a risk he’d take. Additionally, Luchino went missing from the labs where this happened, and Dr. Thompson was never mentioned again, so I think it’s likely there was some sort of struggle immediately after Luchino was bitten. For that, a fight had to have been warranted.

-Eli describes Luchino as cautious, dignified, courteous, and “kinder and more friendly than expected.” You all know I talk about it any time I can, but I state once again that Luchino is a gentleman to most if not all people. His vigilance mentioned earlier makes his intuition rather good, so he can fairly reliably tell good people apart from the bad, and uses that to keep himself a safe distance from trouble. He’s also very open-minded and sees atypical traits and behaviors as interesting more than anything else. He feels secure in his judgement of people, which allows his curiosity for all things to flourish.

-But he’s also obsessed with his work. Sometimes that makes him willing to cut corners. (Once again, self-testing with venom.) Which is how he got himself in his current predicament in the first place. He had some concerns about the intentions of Dr. Thompson asking for his help…but his curiosity for this new and strange reptile overpowered his concerns.

-Luchino is a man of indulgence (indicated both by some of the prior hcs, and his S-tier skin wherein he is Dionysus, a god of pleasure and madness.) He sees no sense in being ashamed of desiring sensual, carnal, or dangerous things. Luscious food, rich wine, mind-blowing sex. He also indulges his thirst for knowledge with hands-on experimentation. But indulgence implies a choice, self-control. Indulgence means giving in to something you typically deny yourself. This is where he and Evil Reptilian really diverge.

-So E.R. is very much still Luchino, personality-wise…but his new, more animalistic nature has made him entirely beholden to impulse. He’s still rather gentlemanly, and still a man-beast of science, but he’s more reactive to aggression/challenges and gives into his desires almost indiscriminately. And several of those desires are very much based in his newfound carnivorousness; he’s one of the most vicious hunters because his instinct screams at him to chase and kill anything that runs.

-The two do get along…but Luchino and he strongly disagree on how good the end results of his biological changes are. E.R. considers all of his changes to be positive; he’s faster, stronger, and still smart as a whip—he’s far more capable, overall. Meanwhile Luchino can look at his Hunter self and see exactly how much of his self-restraint is gone. Luchino thinks the biggest thing separating man from animals is free will, and you can’t truly have that if you’re a slave to your impulses.

-Luchino’s COA skin has what I’m pretty sure is an explosive strapped to his chest, which indicates to me that he’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than lose himself entirely. And as a lot of the A/S tier skins share something with their core character, I assume this trait is the same for regular Luchino. Some people theorize that he’s unbothered by his changes, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. As much as he’s intrigued and excited about the scientific implications of the changes he’s undergone, Luchino DOES NOT want to become a mindless animal, to lose himself entirely. He’d rather die and take his mind and all its knowledge with him than let it waste away.

-He’s a more dominant sort of person, but he’s secure in it and his masculinity, so he’s not overbearing or pushy. Rather, Luchino passively presents as something of a natural leader (if not a slightly removed one) because of his level-headed judgement and work ethic. So people tend to look to him for direction. If they don’t, and if he doesn’t like the person who is leading, he’s fine just stepping away and doing his own thing. He’s always the dominant partner in his romantic entanglements and enjoys taking on a provider role.

-He’s not as reclusive as Alva or Luca, but he is less outwardly social than others. He blends in well with most crowds and paces the amount he speaks when in conversation with others. He’s one of those who prompts others to talk more with thoughtful questions—sometimes just to listen to someone he cares for talk more, and sometimes to subtly get information out of someone.

-Despite a few “mad scientist” tendencies, Luchino isn’t usually hyper focused to the point of damaging his health. He’s typically good about sticking to a regular sleep schedule, stays relatively active, and eats healthy. He’s in good shape despite having a career that keeps you at a desk a lot.

-Supposedly, Luchino played a hand in the “failure” of Dr. Thompson’s “matchmaking” business, and this is what made the man want revenge on him. Luchino expresses concern for this, implying that he doesn’t know for sure if he caused it, but feels bad if he did. As such, I’m under the impression that Luchino was just making some negative commentary about the idea of a “matchmaking service” to their colleagues. Luchino seems to have been likeable and respected, so word got around about his opinion on the matter and the business (likely already struggling) tanked.

[thebisexualmandalorian]

Viago knew this would happen, deep down.  He’d failed his little sister, letting her fall for a Dellamorte.  They’re cursed, the younger Crows like to say, the small but powerful House that eats alive anyone who steps inside.  Lucanis and Illario were the last surviving of the original bloodline as far as anyone outside the House knows, though he wouldn’t put it past Caterina to have a Song up her silken sleeve.  

And now here they are, with Lucanis dead, his body lying in repose in the Manor, and Elena having cried herself into a fitful sleep while he and Teia keep watch.  He doesn’t believe his little sister is suicidal - Maker, he prays not - but she is rash and impulsive, and he doesn’t trust her not to go chasing rumors to hunt down the Venatori, or worse, go to the Ossuary herself to take on Lucanis’ final contract.

He looks to Teia, who’s stroking Elena’s hair while she sleeps, humming softly.  “We need to do something, before she-”

“What will you do, Vi?  Keep her locked up here?” she asks, her gaze steady.  Lucanis was their friend, but they’re Crows.  They know above anyone else that death is both sudden and unkind.  He just wishes Elena hadn’t had to learn that lesson like this.  

“No, you know I can’t.”  A selfish, human part of him wishes he could.  That he had, that he’d kept her far from House Dellamorte and their curse.  “Just for a few days, till she calms down.”

Teia sighs.  Elena doesn’t stir.  She looks so hopelessly young like this, and his chest goes tight.  “She’ll be alright.  She’s stronger than you think.”  He wishes she didn’t have to be. Damn Lucanis and his charm.  Hadn’t he known?  Hadn’t he thought about this?  What it would do to Elena if he didn’t come home?  Viago forces down the hot spike of anger.  There’s no point in it.

“She’s strong,” he agrees, “But she’s reckless.”

“So were you.”

“I had someone to return home for,” he says, because he knows that as much as Elena loves him, she won’t stay alive for him.  It’s not the nature of their relationship, and he knows too that part of that is his fault.  Even now, he doesn’t know how to comfort her, only how to keep her alive.  He loves her deeply, but showing that love… he was never good at that.  He always kept her at arm’s length, all through their youth, and even now that they’re adults.  It’s his nature, to hide his love, to keep it secret and safe, where it can’t be used against him.  Elena had never been that way, she wore her love proudly, loved deeply and fiercely, and now, all he can do is plead with the Maker that it won’t be the death of her.

[the-altered-sequence]

Dev Character Profile

Dev, originally labeled E4-17 "Project Slatefire" is a last-wave genetically Altered supersoldier created by Caduceus Technologies before the Fall. He escaped during the revolt of soldiers against their creators and fled. Ashton/E12-19 found him and they stuck together, trying to survive a world that hates them.

Dev is 6'1" and of average build, perhaps a bit on the stocky side. His eyes are a rich gold. He is Altered to resemble a sphynx cat in head and tail, but retains human shape everywhere else. Like a sphynx cat, he is completely hairless. His skin has been reinforced with a fire resistant carbon fiber. It adds a little strength and resistance to shallow wounds but mainly serves as fireproofing and heat tolerance well over that of an unaltered human. His fireproof skin appears grey and lightly metallic, similar to the shine of graphite. Like all Altered, he has enhanced strength, stamina, and senses.

He was originally manufactured to breathe fire, but has lost the ability as of the end of book 1, Bound to Ashes. He bears a sprawling, gnarled scar across the sternum from the incident. These burn scars were later built upon after the events of book 2. He often feels self-conscious about the scars on top of his already unusual appearance and isn't seen shirtless very often.

Dev has always carried himself cautiously. As a young adult, he fears the real world and the unconscious, relentlessly accosted by PTSD and trauma. Despite a life of being hunted, his trusting nature was what brought the Altered together with the human survivors. After the events of book 3, he's had a bit of a "reset", and has shed a significant layer of anxiety he used to wear. This came at a cost: he still, years after the incident that left him with a traumatic brain injury, has lingering brain fog and a somewhat unreliable memory. Some memories have been erased completely. But he remains steady and is often praised for his even keel. (He would say his mind feels pretty rocky most of the time.) He is thoughtful and cautious, a great foil to his more impulsive partners. Dev values his alone time and often feels overwhelmed when the spotlight is on him for too long. He prefers to retreat into nature where he hunts with bow and arrows of his own craft. Dev is a maker. His mind flows comfortably with tools in his hands. He finds accomplishment and fulfillment in helping and protecting their settlement, but his true pride comes from a successful hunt and a clean kill, or perhaps when working on the fire fighting teams, accurately reading a fire and knowing how to quench it. (He is definitely the guy tending the bonfire with intense dedication, well after everyone has gone to bed.) As he's gotten older, he's explored ecology and biology. He often spends his free time foraging, promoting food plants in the neighboring wilderness, and hunting wild boar and other feral pests to help feed not only the voracious appetites of his fellow Altered but the many humans he, against the odds, now calls family. Dev's loyalty outpaces all else--he doesn't think twice to step in and risk it all to defend his found family and romantic partners, Ashton and Sybil. Despite the doubt and social anxiety, Dev understands the key factor that leads to survival: working together as one.

In what little spare time the post-apocalypse allows, Dev has also gotten pretty good at cooking.

[ollywhoag]

Slugcat designs!!!!! round 2

simpler style this time around, this is mostly for me so feel free to stylize them if you ever draw them. also not height accurate lol

close(er) ups + notes below:

Survivor

albino, prefers the shade

bite scar on neck + scar on tail

Monk

runt of the litter, has bits of fur scattered everywhere

scar on ear

Hunter

bits of fur/torn skin runs down back/tail, helps with mobility

has red lizard DNA (through patch on chest). impulsive and goal driven

x pupils are optional, can be a shine instead

usually seen with a vulture mask

Nightcat

resides in territory above the clouds

hair is all natural

feel free to play around with red markings (he is emo)

one bent ear

selectively mute. prefers solitude

opt ponytail

Enot/Inv

red highlights depend on lighting

uses emoticon facial expressions (can also have pupils sometimes)

tail prehensile

silly

Gourmand

pretty average scug. ambassador of her species. distantly related to survivor, monk & nightcat

has bits of fur, mainly for slugpups to grab onto

Artificer

gnarly sideburn (it feels like charcoal to the touch), left eye is completely gone

partly blind & deaf as a result

go crazy with the scars hes pretty miserable

tuft of fur sticks up behind neck

overbite

Rivulet

evolved to resemble an aquepede for defense purposes

toothy grin and thousand yard stare

build like an eel for optimum mobility in water

Large

eyeliner opt

Spearmaster

ominous. inquisitive creature

7 spots only on face

spots on tail are random

worm

Saint

pattern on tail can be on the ears sometimes

patterns + eyes glow when at max karma

usually wet

[theflowergothic]

This isn’t even specifically about K, but I’m getting concerned about the comments saying he seems fine or he seems happy and we would see if people are getting abused.

I am asking people to please read up on partner abuse so they can know the signs for themselves and those closest to them. Abuse is more than showing up with a black eye or seeing public verbal arguments. It often takes survivors multiple times to leave their partners successfully. It also often takes survivors a while to start realizing they are in an abusive cycle. Beyond what we do or don’t think about an athlete and his WAG, seeing patterns of isolation, control, grooming, and manipulation are real red flags that we should look out for regardless of how happy someone may seem.

I don't know how your ask inspired me to write this, or if it's just my Sunday-induced boredom. But I binged the show Kamen Rider Gavv recently, and there are a couple of characters/plot points that remind me of Max and Kelly's dynamics as we see it.

(Kamen Rider Gavv spoilers below, obviously)

The basic plot of Gavv is as follows: There's a race of aliens called "granutes". One of the most prestigious Granute families, the Stomachs, basically kidnap and kill humans to turn them into "dark candy", which is their world's equivalent of drugs. A half-granute, half-human descendant of the Stomachs is fighting to stop them.

But that hero doesn't matter in this explanation, as we're gonna focus a couple of the villains. Namely, Jiip and Lizel (and Siita to an extent).

Jiip and his twin sister Siita are the youngest full-blooded granute members of the Stomach family. Early on in the series, they're shown to be very close—inseparable, even. They fight in sync and finish each other's sentences. They're really the only company they have in a wealthy but deeply dysfunctional family.

(Before you ask: Siita is on the left, Jiip is on the right)

So naturally, Siita is killed off 14 episodes in, leaving Jiip alone to grieve.

(Shiita is just another rmanization of her name; the official wiki uses Siita).

He returns to the granute world and mourns for a while, considering whether to end everything. But then, in episode 29, he returns and announces his marriage to Lizel Jaldak, the Granute society's president's only daughter.

Jiip calls Lizel "his other half", which is exactly what he used to call Siita. Jiip through his inner monologue that he was mostly motivated to marry Lizel to get back at his older brother, who wanted to marry him off.

What really makes me remind Jiip and Lizel of Max and Kelly is Lizel herself. At first, it seems like she's a supportive wife, going after the heroes for "bullying" her beloved.

(Like with "Shiita", "Jeebh" is another way to romanize Jiip's name)

But it's quickly made clear this marriage is not healthy. Even though Jiip gets what he wants—vengeance, recognition, and a partner—the relationship is built on exploitation, not mutual support. Lizel takes pleasure in her husband being broken and grief-stricken. She even meets with the protagonist at a cafe, THANKING him for making Jiip's life more difficult.

Lizel positions herself as Jiip’s savior while subtly isolating him, mirroring Kelly’s dynamic with Max. She crafts a narrative around a man whose sense of self was shattered with his sister's death, then reinforces it constantly... even in front of his family.

Lizel also uses that grief against him, bringing out the worst in him and making him more prone to impulsive decisions.

Lizel doesn't love Jiip—she curates him. And that’s what makes this story feel so eerily familiar.

Like Lizel, Kelly cloaks herself in supportive language only to chip away at Max’s autonomy behind closed doors. She isolates him with affection, reinterprets his history through her lens, and offers herself as the only one who truly understands him… all while benefiting from his slow emotional erosion.

Both Jiip and Max started as powerful in their own right. But through their troubled upbringings, they became hollowed out.... easier to direct even if it didn't seem obvious.

And look, I know this has gotten very long. I know it’s jarring to compare real people to sci-fi villains.

But when the fantasy toku show has more emotional honesty than the PR circus in Monaco, the comparison writes itself.

[butchriptide]

Falls to my knees. Qiblijou. Kinkabli. Whatever you want to call it. Does anyone understand. Does anyone understand.

Now, as a certified AroAce, I am not the type to pedal that every dynamic ever has to be romantic. But also. I think they're cute as a couple. But ALSO also, even if you do not care for them as a couple, I need more people to discuss and write about and draw their dynamic. I need more if it like, yesterday.

Having to put this under the cut because it got crazy fucking long but like trust me. Trust me okay.

The element I find so compelling about them is that they read very much as similar characters at first-boiling down largely to "silly and kind". They diverge from this shared center point largely in how they react to trauma; They both are survivors, persistently... Goofy in the face of hardship. Kinkajou's seems to act as a natural element of her personality, rising up in face of being a generally lonely and somewhat disliked child. It's interesting how her impulsive nature and cheery demeanor overlaps with the genuine emotional intelligence she seems to hold. In moments of low-tension, where her head's clear and she's not immediately tunneling down something else, she seems fully able to process the fact that her trauma DOES effect her and often at least somewhat how. She doesn't have any big feelings on it, but she can still recognize her knee-jerk reaction to a Nightwing roommate being due to her trauma. Later conclusions about Moonwatcher being an exception due to some general difference from Nightwings as a whole, while not fully "correct", does still show her own ability to recognize these knee-jerk feelings as irrational-At least when faced with significant proof of that being the case, rather than doubling down on her own internal logic that's been shaped by her traumas. Her impulsivity and general hyperactivity tends to push this understanding to the side however, leaving a lot of her trauma something she's working past but not necessarily resolved. It isn't that Kinkajou is purposefully trying to avoid her pain to an unhealthy degree, so much as I think she largely doesn't think about it until she's forced to.

Meanwhile, Qibli's goofy exterior seems to largely be a mask; Or, at the very least, somewhat purposefully curated. He lives almost entirely in his fight or flight response, and seems to interpret his own overthinking and anxiety responses as a boon rather than an effect of his trauma. He likes his scar, but can't reconcile how he got it; Can't reconcile the part of him that loves his mother and wants to believe she loves him back with the fact that she hurt him, repeatedly, through pretty much every avenue one can neglect or abuse a child. This makes his optimistic veneer a lot more purposeful, an attempt to earn people's love because there was never any guarantee of receiving it from anyone. I don't believe that being this silly, playful person is necessarily fully disingenuous of Qibli, so much as I think he forces himself to amount to ONLY this. Shoves himself into a box which is used largely to ignore his trauma, as opposed to cope with it. He can't acknowledge everything that's happened to him affecting him because its incongruous with his image-both to others and himself. Despite being perceived as traditionally intelligent, Qibli's honestly incredibly lacking in the realm of emotional intelligence.

I think that ultimately, this leads them to having a very interesting balance and chemistry that's effective in getting me invested in them even though they have very little one-on-one time during the arc. They don't have any particularly "deep" moments together, but there's this implicit understanding and trust in a lot of their interactions. They match each other on a level that the rest of the Jade Winglet doesn't quite hit due to the vastly different levels they're coming from. While Qibli's not lacking his own impulsivity issues, his tendency to scrutinize and overplan becomes much more effective when it's actively curbing Kinkajou's tendency to fling into danger head-first, while Kinkajou's high-energy and quickness to action forces Qibli out of his own head in order to keep up with her.

Beyond the way they balance each other out, there's a strongly showcased, implicit trust between the two of them. Kinkajou and Qibli are co-conspirators, and them dealing with Chameleon in Book 10 (for all the gripes I hold against this book) showcase this perfectly. Qibli keeps Kinkajou from immediately jumping to action, but he doesn't talk over her, and Kinkajou's information is both pivotal to their planning and prompts Qibli to act. An important element too is that Qibli's trust in Kinkajou doesn't result in excessive idolization, like it does with Moon-Not to say that Moonbli is bad, but rather, it's an element of the relationship that makes Kinkajou and Qibli mesh much easier while Moonbli, I wholeheartedly believe, requires a lot more work to make work than canon would suggest. I think this trust is particularly important due to Qibli's issues with control, which he still easily puts aside for Kinkajou when he lets her simply keep the scrolls from Chameleon, instead of doubling down on them destroying them. Kinkajou opts to keep the scrolls at that's the end of it; even if Qibli's worried over Chameleon coming after them, he simply trusts Kinkajou to take care of them, and that's the end of it.

The way they match each other's energy is also just incredibly sweet. The Vase SceneTM comes immediately after it, so nobody ever talks about it, but they literally greet each other like 2000s scene kids who just found out what a "glomp" is.

My ultimate point is I think Kinkajou and Qibli's personalities bounce off each other in a very compelling way already as friends, and find the idea of them as a romance interesting largely because I don't think it would change much of their chemistry. I think they already feel very natural from what we're shown of them (although a lot of the non-ship dynamics in arc 2 are vastly underutilized due to how fractured everyone in the winglet is through the series to begin with) and I think they're sweet due to how much I think they can understand each other. They're interesting parallels that doesn't really get to shine in a lot of books due to the pacing of Arc 2 nor in fan works due to how people don't really read much into Kinkajou and choose to take her as just sort of a flat comic relief.

Also Kinkajou likes tortured guys <3

[deusvervewrites]

Inko is a Saiyan (and the number two hero, poor Enji), making Izuku half Saiyan.

Good news about the Era of Chaos! There was no one to notice the Saiyan pod that touched down on earth. After all, this was around the time Yagi acquired One For All (give or take a few years). With how absolutely fucked everything still was, no one from the small community of survivors batted an eye at the woman with a tail showing up with her infant daughter sharing the same 'mutation'

All Might's work to restore peace meant that the small community was able to survive, and not too long after Inko and her mother, Coli, were taken in, society was reestablished, which was great for their food intake. Coli realized pretty quick that if people reacted to Quirks the way they did, aliens were in even more danger so she took the pod and hid it.

Inko's drive to seek out fights plus her family's efforts at reigning in her worse impulses led her to becoming a Hero. Inko is canonically about 5 years younger than Endeavor, and while I could fiddle with that and make them classmates, it's way funnier to me if she becomes a rising star at UA like immediately after he graduates. Sorry, Todoroki Family, this will have repercussions. As a sidenote, Inko's Hero Costume is based on Shallot's Sadala Saiyan armor, because it represents pre-Freeza Saiyans and looks dope as hell.

Inko skyrocketed up the rankings due to her incredible power and proactive attitude (read: she really wanted to find a good fight), while also being more personable with civilians. Endeavor never hit Number 2 Hero, stalling him at Number 3. The HPSC considers her basically a second All Might, for better or for worse (for them). Because of her higher rank, and her ability to associate more with top Heroes, she does eventually confide the truth of her origins to a select few. Namely, All Might and Star and Stripe: the only two Heroes who can match her when she gets in one of her fighting moods.

Hey so the fun thing about aliens is that they don't have Quirks. All Might thus tells Inko about All For One, since she's also uniquely suited to kicking his ass, and indeed, she is a huge help in mopping up AFO's operations that All Might hadn't yet by this point. Naturally, she's a part of the proper showdown when Izuku is 9, and the two of them together are way more than AFO can handle. The look on his face when he couldn't steal Inko's Quirk was priceless. It was also one of the last expressions he ever had.

+1. As the son of the Number 2 Hero and a Number 1 Hero (Yes it's CathInko. You people know what I'm about), Izuku actually lives the high life. The Midoriya/Bate Family has pretty substantial funding, and Izuku gets the benefits of that. This also means he and Bakugou don't know each other. Inko and Coli train Izuku in using his Ki and his Ozaru Form safely. Additionally, as a half-Saiyan, Izuku can't have a Quirk.

+2. Inko's signature technique is called Emerald Lance

+3. Ashido has a tail and a sweet tooth.

[togglesbloggle]

I've noticed a lot less... consistency? Plot? Worldbuilding? In many of the more popular video games ever since I stopped chasing the latest AAA sensations. More than once I've made the mistake of asking what a game is 'about' only to get blank looks- I'm making a category error even by asking the question!

Here I'm thinking especially of the 'mega-hit' games like Fortnite, Dead by Daylight, that sort of thing; Overwatch is famously not even canon to itself. Though there's plenty of the type at all levels of popularity, especially among imitators of the heavyweights. They tend to stream well, so they build big fanbases on Twitch and so on, and often involve quick (~15-25 minute) pvp matches in a bounded arena. But there's a decent amount of variation within the 'lore-light' type; I bet most of the new Vampire Survivor microgenre probably qualifies from what I've seen. Even Minecraft might, if you're feeling expansive.

Anyway, I try to resist the impulse to Kids These Days about it- it's not like games with plot and worldbuilding stopped being made, after all, and BG3 proves that there's still voracious appetite for more elaborate constructions. And besides, these arena games have obvious inheritance from classic multiplayer shooters like Halo and Quake, even Goldeneye, so it's been coming for a long time, almost as long as digital gaming has been a thing. They just... stopped bothering to include the single player campaign, so to speak.

Actually, I think it's probably a side effect of video games getting more and more culturally mainstream across my lifespan. Try this thesis on for size: The more mainstream that electronic gaming becomes, the more it comes to resemble sports. Or maybe the reverse! Maybe you can triangulate towards millions upon millions of fans by deeply intuiting interesting things about the nature of sports, and using digital media to explore that landscape in unexpected ways. This is, genuinely, a really interesting trend to me- this thing where many of the elements that I personally enjoy most in games become, sort of, just different-colored jerseys on a small squad of players that are here primarily to test their virtuosity against some opponent.

They tell me that much of the fun of sports is in the narrative, but it's an emergent narrative between the teams and players themselves, something that flows from the contest itself rather than some writer in a studio somewhere. All this seems like a really interesting sort of thing to enjoy, and I'm fascinated by the thought that there's some giant mass of humanity that eternally finds its way back to this participatory storytelling style, no matter how hard the Tolkiens of the world build their own de novo narratives systematically.