#OC-Heavy Fics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

typicalopposite · 5 months ago

Text

Soooooo this story has been kicking my BUTT mainly this first chapter and the build up to the actual story 👀 but i finally finished so does manyone wanna read chapter one of angsty break up/helicopter crash fic?

PLZ READ TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝚘 𝙵𝚕𝚢 (𝙸 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕)

BuckTommy Fic | M | Chapter 1/? | 6713 words

Link to Prologue | ao3

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙾𝚗𝚎: 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 ��𝚎 𝚞𝚙… 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜

In all of Buck’s thirty three years there has never been another time that he recalls feeling so secure and at peace with his life. So at ease with not just himself, but with the happenings around him. Which is saying a lot given everything going on around him.

Gerard makes work miserable with his constant passive aggressiveness, and his snide comments… Buck knew to expect racism and sexism. He also knew to prepare himself for the blatant homophobia. It still wasn’t enough to prepare him for the first time Gerrard called him princess.

They have all filed complaint after complaint. Bobby is working tirelessly with the fire chief (whose head was gone over in bringing Gerrard back to the 118) to get him reinstated and back home. The team is rallying around each other to lessen the blows made at each of them by the person who is supposed to lead them, but only cares to bully and berate them.

But… at the end of his shift, Buck has Tommy to run home to. Not that they are actually living together— they do spend almost every night they have off together, though. He is the light at the end of a long dark tunnel. The calm after Buck’s 12, 24, or 48 hour storm. He is the breath of fresh air after inhaling far too much smoke. He is… just perfect.

Buck can’t believe how happy he is, how in love he is. The true meaning of happiness? Well Buck thinks it might just be tucked away safe in that soft loving smile Tommy is always giving him. Buck sees their whole lives flash before his eyes when he’s gifted that smile. Years and years, and years of living with this happiness? He definitely could get used to that. He is so lucky.

Or so he thought….

Their shift is (finally) almost over. Buck is laid out on the couch, staring at his phone. He isn’t even aware he’s smiling at his text thread with Tommy until Chimney comes up and knocks his feet off so he can sit down. “There’s only one person I know that could have Buckaroo smiling like that,” he says, his own cheesy grin taking over his face. “You heading over there after work?”

“Reverse,” Buck answers, hoping if he’s nonchalant enough the ridiculous blush he still gets talking about Tommy won’t show up. “He’s at my place—he’s uh… getting dinner started.” And there’s the damn blush anyway, running up his neck.

“I thought you said Tommy was a terrible cook,” Hen says, joining them and sitting on the arm of the couch behind Buck’s head. She tries to sneak a peek at the conversation but Buck drops the phone to his chest.

He sits up and looks at her offended. “Okay, one… eye’s to yourself, thank you very much.” She rolls her own eyes and picks up the throw pillow to hit him with. “Two… I would never say that!”

“And yet you’re not saying he’s not,” Chimney says with a smirk.

“He’s— he’s improving.”

The bell goes off. They all groan. “Better tell the wife you’re gonna be late Buckley,” Gerrard calls from the foot of the stairs.

The ride to the fire is quiet.

No one can ever say anything without Gerrard chiming in with his unwanted two cents. So they sit in silence unwilling to give him anything to use as fuel for another of his hate-filled remarks. Except today, Gerrard decides to initiate the conversation. “So Buckley,” he says; his lips curl up into the beginnings of one of his snarky smirks. “Have you ever lost someone on the job?”

His eyes zero in on his target; the bait to what Buck is certain will be some kind of trap dangling in front of him. “Haven’t we all? Kind of par for the course with this line of work,” Buck answers.

“Yeah, well, you have your typical run of the mill losses on the job; then you have the ones that tend to be a little more—” he pauses to lick his lips, like he’s savoring what he’s about to say. “—personal.” He continues to stare at Buck, whose skin feels like it's crawling under the intensity of it. He waits a beat and then: “Kinard ever tell you about his?”

There it is… the other shoe, heavy as it drops.

Buck doesn’t respond. He has heard a couple of Tommy’s work related horror stories; Buck has shared some of his own. Mostly they just leave work at their respective stations and spend the limited amount of time they get together not dwelling on the bad aspects of being a first responder. “Yeah I’ve heard them,” Buck says, hoping it will be dropped at that; or maybe they will get to the fire… He doesn’t think it’s ever taken this long to arrive on scene before.

“So he’s told you about Jay, then?”

Buck feels his face drop. He feels his brows furrow in confusion and his mouth pulls down before he can stop it. Everyone in the engine looks confused.

Gerrard, on the other hand, looks overly amused. “Ohh, guess he still doesn’t like to talk about him,” he says, and the engine screeches to a stop.

The fire is pretty intense, and everyone is drained afterwards. Thankfully, Gerrard doesn’t mention Tommy—or this Jay person—when they load up for the ride back to the station.

“Get out of your head, Buck…” Hen says quietly. He stops fumbling with the things in his locker, and looks back over his shoulder at her. “You’re letting him get to you. You can’t do that.”

“Yeah, kid, he’s a leech, he feeds on your emotions,” Chimney adds from beside him.

“B- but neither of you know who he’s talking about?”

Hen shakes her head, Chimney shrugs. “Tommy was here before either of us, maybe it was from back then.”

“He’s never mentioned this guy to you?” Eddie asks Buck.

“Never.”

“Then it’s probably no one important,” he continues. “Come on, it’s Tommy! Why would he keep something supposedly big from you?”

Buck’s tongue feels heavy. He wants to say: Maybe because I’m the one who’s not important enough to share it with. He knows that will not go over well with them, so he tucks it away with his other negative thoughts. “You’re probably right…” he does say.

“Of course I’m right,” Eddie smirks.

“I don’t know about you guys,” Ravi calls out to them as he walks backwards out of the station. “But I’m ready to get out of here! I love you all, but I need my two days of not seeing you.”

“I’ll see you boys later,” Hen says to Buck and Eddie. She is going to meet up with Karen and Denny so they can spend the day with Mara at the Buckley-Han household. It’s all she has talked about almost the entire shift.

Once Hen and Chimney are gone Eddie walks over and leans on the locker next to Buck’s. “Hen’s right, you know,” he says. “You gotta get out of your head about this, man. Before you start overthinking it.”

Buck sighs. He hangs his uniform up, and closes the locker. “Yeah,” he finally replies. “Yeah, I know—I will. It’s fine… I’m fine.”

~~~

A shift passes, then another. Soon it’s been a couple weeks. If Gerrard has plans to follow up his questioning about Tommy, and the accident, and Jay… and Buck not knowing about any of it, he hasn’t acted on them yet.

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe it was just something to get under Buck's skin; plant the seeds of doubt that had never once been present before and set in motion the derailment of the most stable relationship Buck knows he’s ever had. He decides to remove it from the bin of thoughts that he randomly goes through and obsesses over, and fully let it go…

Or, that was the plan, anyway.

By mid September—following a lengthy investigation into exactly how Gerrard was put back in charge of the 118; that ended with multiple people losing their jobs, Gerrard included—Bobby was finally reinstated as their captain. It should be a joyous day. Gerrard is cleaning out his—well it’s no longer his—office. The whole team is gathered outside, ready to give him a great big good riddance for the final time.

Gerrard walks out, passing by each firefighter as if they weren’t even there, head still held high. He stops just as he is about to step out of the station, turns and locks his sight on Buck. “You ever ask Kinard about that accident?” He asks, narrowing his eyes menacingly. “Or are you too scared you might learn Prince Charming isn’t quite as Charming as he seems.”

Buck tenses his jaw, holding it firmly in place, fully prepared to not indulge in his taunting. He’s about to be gone for good; he only has to deal with him for a little bit longer.

Gerrard raises his brows, his smirk bordering on becoming manic. “Don’t believe me? Just ask your buddies. Han and Wilson have plenty of stories of their days as probies working with the real Tommy… before he went sweet.” Again Buck can feel his face furrowing in confusion before he can stop it.

“Don’t listen to him, Buck,” Hen says, putting herself between him and Gerrard. Chimney joins her, their backs to Gerrard who has made no more effort to just get lost (like Buck, and everyone else, wishes he would). “I told you he is just trying to get—”

“Oh, come now Henrietta,” Gerrard scoffs. “Don’t act like he didn’t put you down, and treat you like the maid, and less than him… just like everyone else—well, save for Han of course.” Gerrard turns his attention to Chimney, who is still not looking at him. “You haven’t told him about how Tommy treated you when you started… and only let up once you saved his life.”

“Alright that’s enough,” Bobby says, making his way to the front of the group, right up to Gerrard. “I don’t know what your motive is here, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”

There’s a short lived, but still intense, staring battle between the two men, with the entire team watching and holding their breath. Gerrard flicks his eyes from Bobby to Buck and his damned smirk returns. He doesn’t say another word, just turns and walks away. Ravi lets out a ‘whoop whoop’ causing an uproar of cheers and laughter from the entire 118.

It was a summer of hell under Gerrard, but now it’s over. Life can finally get back to normal… except— except now a can of worms has been opened. “What was he talking about,” Buck asks once the crowd disperses, and it’s just their little group standing by the engine.

Hen groans. “Buck, you’re letting him get to you.”

“But you’re not denying it—”

“Because it’s not important,” Chimney interrupts. “By the time I started Tommy had already been under Gerrard for a while; that man had his hooks so deep in him—in all of them. Besides, he has more than apologized for how he acted back then.”

“You do know he’s part of the reason Gerrard had to leave the 118 in the first place,” Hen adds. “He reported his behavior towards me. That’s the story you should care about, Buck. Or how he helped us with that neighborhood fire; saved Eddie and that kid's lives. Or how he risked his job to help us find Cap and ‘Thena… Not the things he has done that he has long been forgiven for.”

Buck knows it’s a losing argument; he doesn’t think he really wants to argue with them about it anyway. They’re right. Why let all this stuff an old bigot tried to resurface from Tommy’s past dictate their happy present. It shouldn’t matter; it doesn’t matter… if Chimney and Hen forgive him, that’s all that matters.

Except…

Except he knows himself well enough to know he isn’t going to be at ease until he at least figures out what the deal with this accident is all about, and who exactly Jay is.

~~~

“Babe, can I ask you kind of a personal question?”

Tommy leans out around the opened hood of his truck to look at him. “Of course,” he says, furrowing his brows slightly. Buck knows he has probably turned a shade of green from how sick to his stomach he feels about actually approaching this. Especially after being told repeatedly that he shouldn’t. Tommy sets his wrench down and grabs a rag to clean off his hands, walking out of the garage to Buck. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh—yeah, well, that’s just it… I don’t—” Buck pauses, takes a deep breath and just spits it out: “Tommy, who’s Jay?”

Tommy blinks. His face shifts from concerned to confused to something somewhere between anger and annoyance. “Where did you— How did you…” he sighs. “Let me guess. Gerrard?”

“Mhmm,” Buck hums with a small nod.

“That’s just—” Tommy starts, huffing out a sarcastic laugh as he roughly wipes the oil and grease from his hands. “That’s just great,” he finishes, angrily tossing the cloth at the floor. Buck waits patiently; he thinks he owes Tommy that much seeing as whatever—whoever—this is, it’s clearly something Tommy isn’t happy about Gerrard sharing. “I–” Tommy looks at Buck, his eyes suddenly turning red and he quickly wipes at them. “I’m sorry, Evan. I can’t…”

“You can’t?”

Tommy shakes his head hard. “I can’t talk about this–about him, not now… not yet. I–” He inhales sharp and it comes back out a broken sob. Buck is so taken aback, because Tommy rarely ever cries; Buck doesn’t think he’s ever seen him shed more than a few tears, and those were over happy moments.

One time was during some sappy—but with the saddest ending—romcom. Once when he found a dead cat in his backyard. And maybe the most emotional was when Buck slipped up during a particularly passionate kiss and told him that he loved him. Tommy’s face went so red, and Buck began to panic and then profusely apologize until Tommy took his face in his hands and said it back a single tear falling from his eye. Buck wiped it away and leaned back in to continue kissing him.

“Hey,” Buck says, feet quickly moving him across the cement toward Tommy. He slips his arms under Tommy’s, wrapping them around his back and pulling him into a hug. “It’s okay… you don’t have to.”

“I’m—I’m sorry… It’s just… it’s too—”

Buck can feel the tears soaking through his shirt where Tommy has pressed his face to Buck’s shoulder. He feels like such a jerk. “No,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down Tommy’s back. “No, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have asked. I was letting Gerrard get in my head—I was being stupid…”

“You’re not being stupid, Evan,” Tommy says, muffled against the fabric of Buck’s shirt. “You were curious. I understand… It’s just–” Tommy pulls away, taking a step back. He wraps his own arms around himself, and it shocks Buck how small he seems right now. He slowly lifts his eyes to Buck’s, he looks broken (Buck hates himself for it) but mostly he looks worried. “This is—it’s really personal…” he says. “And I’m just not ready to share it yet.”

“That’s okay,” Buck quickly responds. “I understand, and I won’t bring it up again. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

A wave of relief visibly washes over Tommy’s face. The worried frown turns back into that familiar soft smile, and Buck tells himself he is one hundred percent fine with how this whole conversation turned out.

He is fine not knowing.

He is fine.

~~~

Time passes and it feels like the universe is playing the ultimate prank on one Evan Buckley.

On the outside everything has returned to normal. Everyone’s lives seem to have fallen back in line. Bobby is once again leading them, Hen and Karen get Mara back, Eddie convinces Christopher to come home (and they are both regularly going to therapy about the whole Kim/Shannon of it all), Chimney’s latest appointment shows no lingering effects of the encephalitis… but Buck— Buck is… struggling. He is struggling, and he feels so guilty about it, but he can’t get past it.

If it’s not seeing the name Jay in—damn near constant—passing, it’s hearing random stories about the people Tommy has saved (and knowing somewhere out there is a story of someone significant he didn’t). It’s the little signs, and the messages, and the ads he keeps seeing; an online quiz on ‘how well do you know your partner’, a billboard about getting out of an untrustworthy relationship, a commercial about not keeping secrets.

They mean nothing, he knows that. He’s self-sabotaging, he knows that.

It doesn’t stop him from collecting each one like trading cards and adding them to his bin of thoughts until it’s full and he has to do something or it’s going to overflow and drown him.

“You planning on spending your day off here, Buckaroo?”

“Hmm…” Buck blinks, breaking from his thoughts and looking up from his phone—more specifically from the text that just came in. Chimney is standing in front of him, arms crossed, brows pulled together. “Oh, hey Chim—I was just watching—” but the TV is now off. “Huh? I was watching TV.”

Chimney hums, tucking his hands further under his arms. “Is everything okay,” he asks. “You and Tommy… you good?”

“What? Yeah. We’re— Why— why would you think we weren’t? Has he—”

“Whoa now; calm down,” Chimney laughs, putting his hands up in defense. “Tommy hasn’t said anything. You just seem… distracted. Ever since—” He pauses. “I just want to make sure you’re not still dwelling on the crap Gerrard said.”

“Oh, I—” His phone feels extremely heavy in his hand now. He gets the reminder of the unread text. He should probably say something before Chimney gets suspicious. “I’m fine,” he lies, and it makes his stomach sour instantly.

Chimney doesn’t move—doesn’t look away. “You sure about that?” Buck nods, thinking he might be sick if he tries to say another word. “Okay,” Chimney sighs. “You know, Buck… we all have done things we aren’t proud of. I know I have…” Buck is reminded of an angry fist, and a swollen black eye Chimney apologized for everytime they were alone for almost a year.

He is reminded of a lawsuit he still regrets, and a tipsy kiss that unintentionally spiraled him into his second serious relationship. He is reminded of sudden nerves burying him deep into a closet he hadn’t even realized he had been in all along. He is reminded of reaching out for help spying on his boyfriend because he can’t get out of his own head about something that could very much be nothing.

His phone vibrates; another reminder he has an unread text.

He waits until Chimney disappears down the stairs to look back at his phone.

I’ll be home at 8… see you then

~~~

Buck parks his jeep outside the apartment complex, takes the stairs up to the third floor, and stands awkwardly outside apartment 3C contemplating turning around and running back down before he is spotted. He doesn’t, and instead lifts his hand to knock.

A couple days ago his thought’s overfilled the bin … a couple days ago he could no longer ignore his curiosity … a couple days ago Buck came to one of the only people who doesn’t know Tommy enough to be emotionally invested in this … investigation … Buck decided he needed to go on.

A moment later the door is pulled open, and May is in front of him. “Hey,” she says, her smile mirroring Athena’s. “Come in!”

“Uh— Hey,” Buck says back, subconsciously wiping the sweat forming on his hands, off. “So did— did you find anything?” Her smile fades, she shifts on her feet. “You did… Is it — is it that bad…” he asks, wondering if he will even be able to hear her response over the sudden pounding of his heart.

“It’s not necessarily good,” she replies. He wishes he actually hadn’t been able to hear her. He feels himself start to deflate.

May walks to her room, comes back with her laptop, stalls just as she’s about to hand it to him. “Wait,” she says, pulling the laptop back to her chest and holding it there. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean… why make trouble in paradise when there isn’t any?”

“Is it really paradise if he’s hiding stuff from me?”

May sighs, and opens her laptop. “I guess not,” she says once her password is entered and everything she found is pulled up.

The first thing she shows him is the article released the day of the accident.

Tragedy on the Vincent Thomas Bridge

Unidentified man jumps from bridge into LA Harbor late Tuesday afternoon.

LAFD station 118 responded to calls that a man had climbed over the bridge railing. Witnesses say Thomas Kinard (Pictured above) a firefighter with the 118 was on scene trying to talk the man off the edge before he let go, falling 186 feet into the Harbor below.

Buck looks at the picture of a much younger Tommy, dazed and disheveled, one hand running through his hair. He thinks, I know that look… I’ve had that look. He thinks of Devon falling to the ground from the roller coaster. Suddenly he is regretting everything about this. He clicks to the next article anyway.

LGBTQ+ Community Speak Out On Bridge Suicide

Following the death of Jay Pridgen, a member of the LGBT community, rumors began of prejudices within LAFD Station 118, who were present at the scene of the accident. The rumors are calling the stations Captain, Vincent Gerrard, out for repeatedly exhibiting biased behaviors when dealing with minority groups. When asked, Gerrard had no comment. Also under fire is the first responder who was on the bridge with Pridgen. Kinard is being accused of stalling rather than actually trying to get Pridgen off the edge.

Fire Chief Releases A Statement on Alleged Homophobia Within Station 118

Bridge Tragedy Officially Ruled An Accident

While it’s unclear what Pridgen’s original intentions were when he climbed over the railing of the Vincent Thomas Bridge, Firefighter Thomas Kinard went on record Friday insisting Pridgen did not jump but instead fell to his death. Kinard states he was trying to get to him but was unable to before he slipped from the edge. While there are some who still are hoping for an investigation into LAFD, specifically station 118, Captain Vincent Gerrard says he hopes this new cause of death will allow everyone to move on from this clear and complete accident so his team can get back to their jobs without having to deal with the torches and pitchforks coming for them daily.

“Wow…” Buck says softly. “That’s— That’s a lot.”

“That’s… not all,” May admits, clicking on yet another link. “So even though the accident itself is really terrible, it felt weird that he would hide it from you. I mean Tommy’s part of the community, it’s not like he really let this guy fall because he’s gay… right? So I kept digging and I found… this.” Buck holds his breath, May pulls up a picture. It’s an army Platoon, and upon closer inspection it’s Tommy’s platoon.

“I don’t understand,” Buck says.

“Once I had Jay’s full name I searched it together with Tommy’s… just to see if there were any more articles on the accident, but I found this picture instead.” She scrolls up to reveal the names of the soldier’s; the man in the middle next to Tommy, arm draped over his shoulder holding Tommy tight to his side… is Jay Pridgen.

“Oh my god… they— they knew each other?” And well that definitely adds a whole new layer to how traumatic Jay's death must have been. Buck sighs and closes May’s laptop. He thanks her for going through all the articles and everything for him, even if it feels wrong to thank someone for invading Tommy’s privacy.

He rides home in silence, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He feels crappy, and insensitive… he collapses onto his bed the second he reaches it. Maybe he can sleep on it and his head will be clearer in the morning. Honestly he thinks he would like to just forget about this whole thing; that sounds like a very good idea.

His phone dings.

A notification that Tommy tagged him in a photo. He opens it and is met with himself and Tommy, standing in front of a gorgeous sunset on the beach; bodies pressed against each other, noses touching and their lips just a breath away from a kiss. Yeah, he’s all mine <3 Buck feels the smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he double taps the image watching the red heart bloom out from his thumb.

He is so happy. Why is he trying to ruin that for himself? He clicks on Tommy’s account, looking through all the pictures Tommy has posted of him, and of them together. A visual confirmation of the true meaning of happiness that Buck has finally found. Buck has liked them all already, so he just scrolls through them.

Next thing he knows he has gone back to before they met. Tommy didn't use social media that much, at least not in the recent years before they got together. He only has a handful of images from each year and some years there’s gaps where he didn’t post anything.

Buck doesn’t think he’s ever gone so deep into Tommy’s account before. He decides to go all the way back to the beginning and scroll up. He can’t help but laugh at how tiny Tommy looks in the very first pictures he posted; horrible quality shots of him showing off his baby muscles (compared to the ones he has now anyway), giving his best smolder for the camera. As he starts scrolling through them it’s so reminiscent of his own earlier days on the app, just thirst trap after thirst trap and Buck is kind of loving the experience.

He goes through them, liking each one, before he notices something that has him sitting up in his bed.

It’s a picture taken up in the snow; a picture taken in NorCal. Tommy's mom lives in NorCal so that’s not surprising… what is surprising is the top name on the list of likes. It’s Jay. Buck blinks at the name thinking the letters might shift and he’ll realize he’s just reading the username wrong; it’s JPridge82, he’s definitely not reading it wrong. He scrolls up to the next picture. Tommy with his mom; liked by JPridge82. Tommy in his 118 turnouts; liked by JPridge82. Tommy in bed clearly wrapped around another body, his eyes are half-lidded and tired, the caption reads wake me up before you go go; liked by JPridge82, and a comment… but you're so cute when you sleep, baby! Tommy replies: oh shut up! XD

It easily could be read as banter; he and Eddie play flirt like that all the time. Next picture: a restaurant table Buck recognizes oh too intimately. Think I found my new favorite Italian restaurant; liked by JPridge82 and replies: sameee

A picture of two shadows holding hands. Take my hand, take my whole life too. It’s askew enough you only see part of the bodies and then their hands (enough you can’t see their heights are the same, Buck thinks. That would have raised questions for sure.) Liked by JPridge82; aww baby look at us xoxo. Tommy replies: my god you are ridiculous

The inside of Tommy’s old truck, two coffee cups in the holders. Let’s get out of this town <3. Liked by JPridge82.

The next picture is a new thirst trap, of sorts. Tommy standing in the mirror shirtless. He isn’t flexing, or posing. Just standing there. No caption. No like by JPridge82, but there is a comment from Sal. Not the mopey instagram posts! She wasn’t for you, man! Let it go, you’ll find new ass in no time. Tommy didn’t respond.

The pictures slowly turn from selfies, to work related, to memes. Some of which are extremely questionable; putting down women, or minorities. Some are downright hateful. They are so unlike the Tommy he knows now. They are definitely giving Buck a look at this person Gerrard was referring to when he made the comment about Buck not knowing the “real” Tommy. He thinks of what Chimney and Hen said; that he has profusely apologized for how he was back when they started. Why hasn’t he taken them down then.

He sets his jaw, trying to not let the annoyance building set him off, and goes back to the last picture Jay liked. He clicks on the username. “Dammit,” he mumbles out loud. His account is private.

He gets an idea.

It’s one that on a typical day he would be annoyed with himself for having… but it’s almost three in the morning he is running off pure adrenaline now and he isn’t thinking like he typically would… he logs out of his own Instagram and logs into Tommy’s.

It’s not that he was being sneaky and eavesdropped on Tommy entering his password, Tommy literally typed it out right in front of him. He had taken a picture of them and needed to log in to post it. He is always saying he has nothing to hide from Buck… Seems like he had one thing to hide.

Buck’s heart is pounding into his ears as he opens Tommy’s followers list. Maybe they weren’t even following each other anymore, Buck thinks, his thumb lingering over the search bar. Maybe he should just back out of this while he’s still somewhat in the dark, before he brings to light something he doesn’t want to know.

JPridge82.

Buck feels his heart completely stop beating. He shouldn’t do this. Hell, he shouldn’t be on Tommy’s instagram in the first place. He clicks on the name anyway. Immediately his suspensions are answered. Private accounts come with freedom; freedom to share whatever you want because you control who can see it. And Jay didn’t have that many followers, so they likely all knew the truth.

Jay’s photo bin looks eerily similar to how Tommy’s account looks now, except its picture after picture of Tommy and Jay together.

One in bed, Tommy’s head resting on Jay’s chest. One from what must have been a hike, far from any peeping eyes; a kiss in front of a waterfall. Their hands clasped together over the center console of one of their cars. A movie date; Buck and Tommy have still never made up their missed movie date, never had the time. He doesn’t mean for the jealousy that starts to bloom deep in his chest, but it’s there and he is too drained to even attempt to push it away.

He wonders why Tommy wouldn’t tell him about such a pivotal time of his life.

My Forever <3 Jay captions a picture of Tommy staring out at the ocean, his hair wet and tousled like he just came out of the water.

Buck looks through the pictures, each one feeling like a stab to the chest—this was not meant for him to see. This was something beautiful Tommy had… and lost… and he wanted to keep it to himself. But Buck can never leave well enough alone, and he took that decision from Tommy.

He is about to close his phone when he sees Jay’s last post isn’t a picture but text.

I wish I had been enough of a reason for you to stop lying about who you are. Posted — August 8, 2010. A week before the accident.

Buck closes his phone, but he doesn’t—he can’t—go to sleep.

~~~

There’s a knock on his door.

Buck wishes he could just hide under his covers and pretend he doesn’t hear it; he knows exactly who it is.

He spent his first day off avoiding Tommy. He had hoped Tommy hadn’t caught on; he was working a 24 and from the already scarcity of his calls and texts, it seemed the shift was a busy one. Usually as soon as Tommy is suspicious of Buck’s behavior he will go hide somewhere so he can call—and will repeatedly call—to figure out what’s wrong. He hasn’t pressed once as Buck went through literally every excuse in the book as to why he wasn’t able to talk, and he has seemed just as unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm in all of Buck’s texts.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

Another knock. He could continue to ignore it, but Tommy has a key.

Buck groans and pushes off his bed, taking the steps one at a time for once; no reason other than to prolong reaching the door. “Hey baby,” Tommy says, cheery and bright, the second Buck opens it. “Were you sleeping?”

I wish, Buck thinks. “I… was,” Buck lies. “What’s all this…”

In Tommy’s hands there’s a huge, beautiful bouquet of flowers, a bottle of wine, and a card. He hands Buck the card first. “Uh— let’s call it an… it seems like I’ve done something and haven’t realized what it is yet… surprise.” Buck can’t help the laugh that escapes him. What does he say to that… yeah you have, I just haven’t rationalized whether I truly deserve to be mad at you about it or not. “So… go on, read it.”

Buck sighs, finally looking down at the card in his hands. My forever is written in Tommy’s small ridiculously neat handwriting with a heart at the end. He stares at the card, his mind going right back to a private account and a picture captioned My Forever <3.

“I— I know… cheesy right?”

Buck breaks his eyes away from the words, bringing them up to Tommy’s. “Why— why would you put that…”

“Uhm—” Tommy looks at him confused, if not a little hurt. “I mean… I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be so on the nose… but that is what I see with you… if you don’t—”

“Is that what you saw with Jay too?” Buck asks before he can stop himself.

Tommy’s eyes widen, he steps back. “What…”

Buck has been here before. Putting himself in an awkward situation and so yet his mouth still starts moving against his better judgment. “I mean… that’s what he saw with you… but maybe it was only one-sided.” Tommy doesn’t speak, continuing to stare at Buck like he has grown a second head. Might as well rip the bandaid off, he thinks; shrugs. “You didn’t want to talk about him… so I just found out myself. It’s not like it’s hard to pull up an old news article.”

“You— but how did you get on his—” Tommy blinks, a new look crossing his face; he knows what Buck did. It should make Buck feel bad; it does make him feel bad… but it also makes him feel defensive. He deserved to know—if only he truly believed that.

“I’ve told you everything, Tommy!” He snaps. “I’ve told you all about my past, all my relationships, Daniel. Every sad, and hard, and embarrassing, and traumatic experience… I told you. But you... You’re this big mystery. You don’t talk about anything. The only thing you’ve told me about your past is that it makes you jealous of mine…” The tension in Tommy’s face has gone slack, and he’s just taking the lecture with calmness; meanwhile Buck’s heart is about to pound out of his chest and his skin has gone hot and numb. “But did you ever think that maybe the reason we’re like a family is because we treat each other like equals. Instead of like some of them are beneath us...”

That gets him a reaction; finally, he thinks. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t act like you and Chimney and Hen always got along… like you didn’t follow Gerrard’s lead when they first started…” Tommy looks at him like a kicked puppy; Buck internally screams at himself that it’s enough. It’s not enough, he adds: “Not to mention all the crap you used to share. That you probably got a good laugh about with all your buddies at the expense of others.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Tommy cries.

Buck sees red, throwing the unopened card down on the table and storming up to his phone. He doesn’t even log out of Tommy’s account, just finds the memes and shoves them in his face. “This is what you think is funny?”

“Evan, these are— do you even realize how long ago this was?!”

“What difference does that make!?” Buck screams back.

Tommy sighs, and hands Buck back his phone. “No… you’re— you’re right. It doesn’t make a difference… it doesn’t make it okay.”

Buck thinks he’s said enough. He has revealed what he knows. “So is that what happened with you and Jay…” he says instead… the words sliding their way out of his mouth and he can’t stop them. “He couldn’t live a lie any more… couldn’t live your lie anymore.” It’s rolling off his tongue so easily, it actually disgusts him. But the words pass his lips and he watches the exact moment they slap Tommy across the face and the man gasps like he’d actually just been assaulted. His eyes instantly fill with tears and he has to break his eyes from Buck in an attempt to blink them away.

“You— you have no idea what you're talking about, Evan. You had no right to…”

“To what? Question if I really know the man I was considering spending the rest of my life with? I’ve been through this, Tommy, too many times. You think you know someone… and it turns out you don’t.”

“How can you even say that?!” Tommy all but screams, rubbing the back of his hand—still holding on to the bottle of wine—over his eyes and nose. “Okay yeah, I didn’t tell you about a really hard time in my life… and maybe given everything surrounding it I should have. Maybe I should have even told you about how it was when Howie and Hen first started. And yes, I should have gone through and deleted all those posts a long time ago… But to say you don’t really know me? Those things don’t define me!”

“They sure say a lot though…”

Tommy goes silent. He takes a few calming breaths, fresh tears in his eyes and trails running down both cheeks. “So— so what is this— what are we— what does this mean, then… for us?”

Buck shrugs. “That maybe I'm not your forever,” he says, tightening his jaw so it won’t betray the stone cold persona he is trying to uphold by trembling.

Tommy freezes, the bottle of wine and roses he’s still holding suddenly seem so out of place. “You don’t mean—” he starts; he searches Buck’s eyes like he’s trying to find a different answer. He doesn’t seem to find one. “Really?” Buck doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t take it back either. He just swallows around the lump forming in his throat and manages to hold his composure. “Okay… if that’s—” he shifts on his feet, breaking away from Buck’s eyes; Buck is grateful for it. “O- Okay.”

He sits the roses and wine on the table by the card and turns for the door. “You— you don’t need to leave those…” Buck manages to say; it sounds so petty, it disgusts him.

Tommy opens the door and turns back to the roses. “Think of it as… a goodbye gift,” he says, quietly, giving a halfhearted laugh. He turns his head farther, so he is again looking at Buck, giving him one more chance to take it back. He doesn’t. “Good-bye, Buck,” Tommy says and pulls the door closed behind him.

32 notes · View notes

crookedteethed · 9 months ago

Text

STORM’S be heavy soon (1) Billy the kid

Pairing: Billy the kid x Rich girl reader

Summary: Billy is hired to be the bratty Y/N Bristow guard on a five-day trip to Macon, GA; who knows what may happen on the long trail?

WARNINGS: Original characters, Cursing, reader's last name is "Bristow", mentions of guns, gun usage, reader is snotty, Eventual smut , (gonna add more warnings as I go)

Authors note: Typically I don't write for this show, but this idea popped into my head a few nights ago. Also, I haven't watched this show in months, so I'm just going off my imagination/what I remember. Enjoy!! <3

Word count: 2k

Divider cred → @saradika-graphics

New Mexico, 1881

On Ovid Bristow's hand-crafted cherry wood desk lies the sand color sack of silver dollar coins he'd just offered Billy.

The sack had been plopped on the desk and sat there untouched for a whopping two minutes, two minutes in which Billy been debating if he should take Bristow's offer.

Surely, Billy wanted the money. He could use a new rifle--ou--two new rifles, afford a new pair of boots, and maybe even a new horse--a quarter horse since quarter horses were the best for ridin'.

However, Billy had a sinking suspicion of immorality towards Ovid Bristow a sinking suspicion that boils in the pits of his stomach whenever he sees the aging, gray haired man with a deceitful smile on his face (Billy always smiles back, though). A sinking suspicion that's been brewing in his stomach for a while now.

But to mention this "sinking suspicion" Billy had wasn't suspicion at all; everyone knew Ovid Bristow was cruel; Bristow himself knew he was a cruel man, so he couldn't blame his wrongdoing on his ignorance.

It was just last week Billy had been playing cards with Ovid, along with several other aging gray-haired potbelly men, inside Ovid's new Saloon and Brothel (it used to be the old church house, but Ovid paid the church house's landlord twice as much as Pastor David did to own the building.)

Normando something (Billy had forgotten the man's last name, but it doesn't matter now since he's dead.) claimed he won the game, showing all the men his hand. A royal flush, he had one 10, one Jack, one King, one Queen, and an ace of spades.

Poor Normando; if he hadn't been smiling so hard and gloating about his win, he would've seen it when Ovid drew the gun from his holster. And then that was the end of Normando something, shot in the head by a colt revolver. Ovid said Normando had been cheating; he saw the stash of cards underneath the table.

No one doubted this, as you don't want to provoke the man with a gun in his hand.

In the present moment, Billy thought of this: how cold Ovid had been to murder someone over a card game (a card game?!). Billy imagined what Ovid would do to him--how worse his punishment would be if he: "Lost sight or let anything happen to his darlin'."

And that's where Billy resides in the place of dubiety.

"What? Did ole' Ovid Bristow scare you?" Bristow laughs, a flock of seagull-type laugh; when Billy doesn't join in on the laughter, Ovid suddenly becomes serious.

"Look," Bristow says, standing up from his desk, now face to face with Billy. "I'll give you some more money if that makes you feel any better."

He goes into his left breast jacket pocket, pulling out a rolled-up wad of cash. Bristow tosses the wad of money onto the sack of coins.

"1,500 in total." He says. "It's all there, you can count it."

As callous Ovid been, Billy knew he wasn't a liar. He believed that the sack of coins and the wad of cash had amounted to 1,500.

Billy stayed silent, as silence is the loudest response.

"C'mon, Billy, I wouldn't be asking this of you if I didn't trust you, you're one of the only men I trust, let alone trust you being around my darlin'."

Ovid sits on the edge of his desk with disdain, his stare not particularly on Billy but just above Billy's head.

"I see how those bastards look at my little Y/n at the Saloon, they look at her like she's one of those harlots at the whore house." He spats. "How I wish I can put a bullet through every one of those no good lookers head."

Ovid stands to his feet again.

"But you Billy, you don't stare at my daughter like she's a piece of meat, to you Billy my daughter ceases to exist. I like that about you."

Billy seemed calmed on the outside, but in the inside, he heard the bells ringing in his head.

Of course he looked at you, every man looked at you when you walked by. You were enchanting, the most beautiful woman Billy had ever saw.

Billy did most of his staring when you or your father hadn't been looking. Most of his staring had been from the corner of his eyes or below his hat.

The first thing Billy noticed about you was your bright eyes. They were a pretty shade of (your eye color) that matched your pretty crimson-colored lips and rosy cheeks. You were light on the makeup, which Billy had liked. You'd done your makeup in a way that almost seemed like you weren't wearing makeup at all; Billy liked that about you too. He also liked your elegant collarbones that sat right before your cleavage.

What Billy liked the most about you was that you were educated. You were going to college soon, the first woman Billy had known to do something like that--hell, the first person.

But if it weren't for you getting accepted into Wesleyan College in Macon, GA, Billy wouldn't have been asked to escort you there.

"It's only a week there and week back." Ovid told him at the beginning of the conversation; then Billy had his mindset that he wouldn't take you.

But now, thinking about you--thinking about anyone but himself taking you to Georgia, one of those no-good lookers Ovid described somewhat infuriated Billy.

What if one of them were to take advantage you? Or try to harm you? What if one of them were to kidnap you, take you to one of the many enemies Ovid Bristow have made and hold you for ransom?

Ovid had said it himself, he trusted Billy, so if the job was to be done, Billy was the one to do it.

So as Billy left Ovid Bristow's office, he had the 1,500 stuffed down in his pockets.

Walking Billy to the door, Ovid had his arm snaked around Billy's neck, with a wide smile on his face.

"I knew you wouldn't let ole' Ovid down." He says. Ovid then instructs Billy to arrive at his manor tomorrow by a quarter till seven and pack lightly, as the rest of the wagon is reserved for his "sweet darlin'. "

Leaving Ovid's office, Billy thought he might've seen you inside the waiting room, but it was just that harlot--the one that works at the Brothel that looks like you.

It was 6:45--a quarter till seven when Billy arrived at the Bristow's manor.

Ovid Bristow's riches had been by pure luck. He used to work in the fields, digging holes to plant crops, and one day, he accidentally struck oil. The best kind of accident that could happen to a man.

Ovid Bristow was the Rockefeller of New Mexico.

Approaching the manor, Billy was greeted by a heap of men and women, all housekeepers, butlers, maids, and landscapers, all of whom had been waiting to give Y/n Bristow a farewell. Plus there been a marching band of all men standing at ease.

He didn't know if he could go inside the manor to tell Ovid he'd been here right at a quarter till seven and was lightly packed, because the doors had been locked shut.

So Billy waited with the rest of them, alongside the coachmen who was to take you and him to Georgia. He slips his sack into the back of the wagon.

"Warner." The man introduces himself as, he was a fellow old enough to be Billy's grandfather, Billy questioned Warner's ability to ride for five days straight day and night.

Your entrance was rather grand, ostentatious.

As soon as the white and gold doors flung open, the marching band began to blow their trumpets and bang their drums.

You stood in the doorway, a demure smile on your face, until the marching band's song (which sounded like a bunch of commotion) ended.

"Farewell, my good people, as this is yours truly last day on Bristow's Manor." You spoke dramatically. "Goodbye Nettie, I'll never forget that day you yelled at me for breaking that vase, and then I nearly gotten you fired for raising your voice at me." You waved to an older woman in a maid's uniform, who looked like she was suppressing an eye roll. "Goodbye housekeepers, whom I've never learned the names of, Goodbye Landscapers who kept planting thorn bushes even after I pricked my finger on one when I was five, Goodbye…"

As you continued saying your goodbyes the word "Shallow" was on the tip of Billy's tongue, but he hadn't want to make his judgement. Though he saw you around town, normally accompanied by your father, he hadn't spoken to you yet.

He'd been too scared he'd get shot or beaten by Ovid for simply saying a "Hello" to you.

Ovid had been beside you as you said your goodbyes, carrying a round pink leather suitcase, presumably yours. Behind the both of you were two butlers carrying the rest of your luggage—ten suitcases in counting, all pink, some round, some rectangular.

"Jesus Christ." Billy mutters to himself.

"Goodbye--" you stop in front of Billy, scanning his face--those dark curls and dark blue eyes--wondering what was his occupation on the manor. He'd look familiar to you, but then again he didn't.

Trashman? The stableman? Daddies assistant? No, he was to ruffian like to be Daddies assistant.

Then you suddenly remember--yes, that's who he is.

"Farewell, stablehand, I don't have any memories of you, but I shall wish you the best of luck cleaning shit for the rest of your life at Daddies stable." You smile.

A scowl had formed on Billy's lip.

That shallow bit-

His thinking is cut off by Ovid's laughter. "My sweet darlin, this isn't the stablehand, this is Billy. Billy here's a gunslinger. I hired him to keep you safe on the trail to Georgia."

You hum, a slight smirk on your lips. You raised your dainty hand to Billy and introduce yourself.

Billy puts his rough hands in your warm, smooth ones. You feel a jolt run through body, you wonder if Billy felt the jolt too.

It wasn't like you didn't know his name now, so Billy just tipped his hat and called you “Misses.”

"Fantastic," Ovid says with a deceiving smile. "Darlin', why don't you make yourself comfortable inside the wagon while Billy and I exchange a few words," Ovid tells you. "And gentlemen, why don't you start loading up darlin's luggage," Ovid instructs the butlers.

As you get onto the wagon (with the help of Warner) and the butlers start loading your things, Ovid pulls Billy to the side by the scruff of his neck.

"Now, remember yesterday I said I trust you, Billy. Darlin's all I got, Billy, it be a shame if something were to happen to her while she's in your care… It be even more of a shame what'll happen to you." Ovid says in a calm voice.

"Promise me that you'll take good care of her during those five days, promise me that Billy."

"I promise, sir." Billy says, looking at you from afar, you yell at the butlers for "manhandling" your "valuables."

Ovid catches Billy staring. "Also, Billy hear this, I know my daughters a pretty girl--she gets her looks from her late mama--god rest her soul, but I swear if you even must lay a finger on her with the intent of lust; I'll have you castrated, you got that boy?"

Billy thought about it , walking around town without his manhood, be known as the man without a cock.

"Y-yes sir." he sweats.

"Good!" Ovid exclaimed, letting Billy go.

"Daddy!" You yelled "I'm not getting any younger here!" You say impatiently.

Then, as you, Billy, and old man Warner left the gates of Bristow Manor, the marching band played another loud commotion. The blaring drums and tubas still ranged in Billy's ears as you all were 2-3 miles down the road.

Billy looked at you, cocking his head--you'd been filing your nails.

A Rose thorn bush, Billy labeled you--so amusing to look at, tempting to touch; when he felt the courage to touch it, he'd realize he gotten pricked and was starting to draw blood.

*I plan on making this a two part series*

#tom blyth #billy the kid smut #billy the kid #billy x reader #old west #fanfiction #fan fic #crookedteethed #billy the kid x y/n #ocs #part 1 #Storms be heavy soon #I only watched billy the kid because of Tom Blyth

51 notes · View notes

demaparbat-hp · 4 months ago

Text

For the Spirits—Chapter III: Keep Your Plans

At the risk of feeling dumb, check in

It's not worth the risk of losing a friend

Even if they say:

“Just keep your plans, I hope

That you never have to drop

Anything for me.”

—At The Risk Of Feeling Dumb by Twenty One Pilots

Yume had to resist the urge to sigh. She already knew how this would go. All roads led to tea, Pai Sho, and no straight answers. If she could go back in time and reach out to her younger self, she’d warn the tired face in the mirror to enjoy Iroh’s company while he still made sense.

She cursed the Crew under her breath, doing her best to give the General a smile back or, at least, keep a straight face.

Why did I even say yes to this?

#atla #zuko #avatar the last airbender #new gods au #for the spirits #zutara #prince zuko #atla iroh #uncle iroh #zuko's crew #atla fic #atla fanfic #atla zuko #Spirit Touched! Zuko #Chapter III: Keep Your Plans #at the risk of feeling dumb #twenty one pilots #atla oc #iroh #The Crew #zutara fic #zutara au #For the Spirits Chapter Three AKA The One In Which Yume Is Tired™ And Iroh Does Not Help Matters #Okay but seriously #We all know this fic is a Zuko Angst Fest so everything about it must be centered around our boy's suffering #He has such a good support system but is utterly unaware of it #Hence the chapter lyrics #I hope you have a good time reading!#As always a little warning for heavy mental/emotional subjects. I wouldn't consider this fic to be a light reading so better be prepared.#Next chapter features a certain river spirit! Stay tuned!

27 notes · View notes

spinchip · 6 months ago

Text

Never the Dark

CHAPTER 17

Read on Ao3

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16

warnings: discussion of past child death, drug abuse/addiction

HOW BEAUTIFUL, THESE THINGS YOU DO // IN CASE THEY HELP, THESE THINGS YOU DO...

Tumbling headfirst into another Realm is never a graceful thing.

Wu’s words before he’d sent Zane flying through that portal are playing on repeat- He can see his face drawn and shuttered in sorrow as he splattered the realm tea across the throne room floor, “I am sorry I couldn’t protect you,” He says as the ground under the Ice Emperors feet grows unstable, “I am so proud of all you are, Zane- The white ninja, the first nindroid, my student, and my friend. I hope one day you can forgive me.” Zane has never seen Wu cry before.

the ground vanishes beneath him, and he’s falling.

Nindroid. Nindroid. Nindroid.

NINDROID.

He’s a nindroid. He’s- he’s-

The impact is not gentle. He lands in mud at least, the cushion of it just barely enough not to snap his spine with the force of it. Back first he crashes on the side of a wet hill, a mound of earth slick with muck that he tumbles down until he rolls to a stop at the base in a mess of broken armor and tangled limbs. His mouth tastes like old blood and oil and he can’t think- can’t- can’t calm the utter horror and panic crawling up through his wiring-

Memory floods his processor hot and uncomfortable, his world expanding from a tiny cold pinprick to an unfathomable reality of loss. He didn’t realize what he was missing- couldn’t understand the absence of it. Now it's all he can feel. A gaping chasm opening up in his chest that eats and eats until all that remains is the memory of a good man and the bloody remains of a bad one.

He’s Zane. He’s Zane Julien, Dr. Juliens son- he’s supposed to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He- oh FSM all those people- the krag- Blood blood blood. Blood and ice. A flash of that awful blade when he didn’t feel bothered to freeze, a flash of the blade when he needed to make an example out of the insignificant resistors- no,no, no, he didn’t do that. That couldn’t have been him, please.

He rolls onto his hands and knees and dry heaves. He hasn’t eaten in sixty years, nothing comes up. Everything aches, his body buzzing with the echoes of power that burned out everything that he was. The delicate sensors lining his body are raw and frazzled, overwhelmed with a constant flux of power that leaves his synthetic nerves overworked and raw. It feels like each of the tiny nodes had been scrubbed down to its copper insides with steel wool. His head is pounding as if he were a human who’d cracked open his skull. He’s half convinced if he reaches up to touch his forehead his fingers will turn wet with his coding- spilling out of him like blood.

The staff was gone. Not in his hands. His thoughts- so nebulous and thready while on the throne- connect together again with the humming under his skin contained and the remaining pieces of his sanity back. He feels so dizzy and wrong footed, everything in the world turned on it’s side and it will never, ever be right again. What did he do what did he do-

There. In the dirt, only a few feet away. The staff glows faintly, enticing him.

His body shudders with the afterimage of a constant, brutal ice-burn.

His stomach rolls with the taste of blood.

He lunges for the scroll, white-hot panic overwhelming every sense in his body until he’s got the delicate parchment in both hands. He tears it in two before going back again, rending it to pieces until every drop of that caustic power flickers and dies. He keeps tearing it far past that, until the pieces are so small there’s no chance it could ever be reconstructed. He’d tear it to atoms if he could get a better grip on it. He can still feel it in his mind. He can still feel blood on his hands. What has he done?

His vision is obscured by black spots. The panic and fear won’t subside. The soul crushing agony of who he’d become is suffocating him. He can feel his fans kick on into high gear in a desperate attempt to cool his insides down but it’s no use. He doesn’t even know where he is, if he’s safe-

Did any of the people under his rule ever feel safe? Does a monster like him deserve to feel safe?

Wu didn’t think so.

His chest spits sparks and Zane gasps in pain before his elbows fold and he finally, mercifully passes out.

He wakes up in a cave. That should alarm him, but he’s so exhausted all he does is blink blearily up at the ceiling. It’s still hard to breathe- to move air through his aching, hot insides- but in a different way from panic now. It’s as if he doesn’t have the strength to force his fans to turn. His limbs feel heavy in the absence of the scroll's power and he’s so numb to everything around him. The ceiling above him flickers from the light of a fire. It’s warm, wherever he is. A face appears above him and he can’t focus on it- featureless, smooth, empty.

”Rest.” A voice orders, but there’s a motherly lilt to it that has Zane closing his eyes.

Part of him worries he might die here.

What does he deserve?

The next time he wakes up he’s scrambling out from underneath the blanket of furs cocooning him so he can dry heave onto the floor again, his whole body is trembling in pain. The numbness has retreated and in its place a bone-deep ache that leaves him wrung out and hung up to dry. It’s as if his wires were torn out and ran through a washing machine before being haphazardly shoved back inside. His vision is muddled with black-and-gray splotches, all blurry on the edges, and all he can hear is the sounds of his fans straining to cool his inner mechanisms. He’s deaf and blind and so vulnerable it makes his power source stutter. Fear fades away into pain and confusion- where is he? Why is he here? What did he do? He can’t keep his head on straight to answer any questions. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He hurt so bad he was certain he would die.

A hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades.

The final time he wakes up, he still feels exhausted. Not so bad that he would immediately fall asleep again, but it’s lingering. A thick weariness that lays across his shoulders like twenty pound weights. His skeleton aches and his sensors cramp- despite how lifeless he feels, his body is still wound tight with tension. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking in the green firelight.

He’s laying on his side this time, and there’s a bucket by the pile of furs he’s sleeping on. His head is still pounding and he has to continuously dismiss blaring red WARNING pop-ups from his vision as he struggles to sit up. The amount of effort it takes to get his uncooperative hands underneath him is monumental, his joints refusing to listen to him. A baby treehorn just learning how to walk flashes across his mind, and he almost smiles at the thought. It’s only once he’s vertical and leaning back against the cave wall that he realizes he’s not alone.

They’re sitting just on the other side of the fire, staring at him through the dark eyes of an expressionless mask.

His body is too exhausted to fight, so he simply stares back and tries to measure up the person across from him. His mind races- this was the same mask as before. This person was trying to- to help, “Were you the one who took care of me while I was incapacitated?” He says slowly into the space between them. His words crackle in the fire.

They don’t acknowledge him, simply looking down and continuing to stir a pot set near the fires edge, in the warm pale embers. The air smells sharp with spice and it makes Zane’s weak stomach turn.

He waits for a long moment, “My name is-“

”Don’t care.” Her voice comes out cutting and disinterested.

He wants to ask her more questions, but he bites his tongue. She didn’t seem like she was in the mood to talk, and frankly neither was he. Even mustering up those two sentences was a monumental effort. He allows silence to fall and tries to pool his strength, looking her up and down to try and glean any information.

She’s dressed in thick green wraps and furs, and on top is a set of carefully crafted armor. It’s the same off-white as her mask. If Zane had to guess, he’d say bone considering the texture. The bone of a massive creature, that is. It’s painstakingly carved and sanded down smooth and sharp in all the right places. Fully articulated gauntlets that don’t hinder her work over her dinner, an intricately whittled chest plate and pauldrons, arm guards, shin guards, plated armor sitting over her hips and stomach. Everything is lined with decorative curves and swirls. He doesn’t ask her about it, even if he wants to.

He fidgets awkwardly, looking around the cave next. It strikes him suddenly just how… lived in the place feels. It’s not a temporary camp, but a home.

Below his sleep mat was long pieces of burgundy wood and when he shifts, he feels the tell-tale flex of raised flooring. The fire she cooked in was recessed into the ground and surrounded by stone bricks to protect the wood around it, and a hole has been meticulously chipped into the ceiling to allow smoke to pour out safely. The cave is large, stretching deep and wide and other than her own bed across the fire, the space is filled with all sorts of luxuries and amenities. Furs are spread across the floors like rugs and there’s a space along the wall where sheets of paper are hung to dry- there’s a whole space for paper making, large jars filled with lye and pulp and frames for sifting. Next to that is a station for making paint and brushes. Next to her bed there’s a woven basket filled with rolls of hand-dyed fabrics and sewing supplies and the fruits of that labor are all around the home- pillows in bed, cushions at the table, curtains by the bath and laundry basin, even what looks like a bean bag made from the furry hide of some speckled animal sitting near his bed with a clutter of paper, charcoals, and other art materials pilled messily in a basket next to it.

There’s clearly a kitchen area tucked away in the far corner, wood shelving filled with rows and rows of dried herbs and spices, preserved fruits, breads and crackers and blue rice. A low counter of stone for food prep, Knives, spoons, pots and pans- two cups set out to drink from, two bowls and two spoons. She had everything in duplicate, even the stone table had two cushions on either side for another person to sit. There were more woven baskets, wooden chests, a laundry hamper, dying flowers in vases, and-

To his left, at the foot of the bed, is a stuffed pigeon hand sewn from soft fuzzy fabrics. It’s rumpled and bald in some spots. Well loved.

He blinks and his eyes flicker to the decor hung on the walls. He’s skimmed over them first, not really looking- but he does now.

All of that handmade paper is taped up and filled with child-like drawings of animals and plants and two people holding hands. The most prominent is a drawing of a large, poorly drawn armored woman wearing the same mask as the woman across the fire wielding a sword and protecting a smaller figure from a large monster trying to attack them. In nearly illegible script, with arrows pointing to the two figures respectively, they are labeled “MOMMY” and the other “ME.”

Without thinking, he reaches out to touch one when the woman speaks again.

”Do you eat?” She asks sharply, snapping him back to attention. He blinks, confused, “You aren’t human. Do you need to eat?” She clarifies, sounding almost annoyed.

”Yes, I can eat.” He answers.

She jerks her armored hand towards the table, “Sit.” She orders, taking the pot of soup over to the table and settling onto the green cushion with her legs crossed.

Zane is slow to follow because his whole body still aches. He stops short of the table when he notices the staff of forbidden spinjitzu propped up against the wall. It’s just a normal staff now that he’s torn the scroll off. That feels… wrong. Too anticlimactic. It should have ended another way.

She motions to the seat across from herself and he lowers himself onto the red cushion gingerly, wincing as his knees hit the ground harder than he intends.

In front of him, scratched into the stone in that same childish script, is the name Kiryu.

She serves him a big bowl of the food she’d prepared, covering the name completely. His stomach is still feeling touchy, and the strong smelling food does nothing to entice him to take a bite. He doesn’t technically need to eat, under normal circumstances. Nothing about what has happened is normal, though, and his body is begging for fuel to burn. So he picks up his spoon.

She’s mastered the art of eating under her mask, keeping her face completely covered while she picks at her dinner. It’s mustard yellow, thick, and filled with mystery chunks. When he finally hypes himself up enough to take a bite, he’s surprised at how bland it is. He might actually be able to stomach this. After his first swallow, his hunger makes itself apparent and he starts to eat a little more animatedly than he had before.

The woman finishes first, pushing the nearly-full bowl away and wiping her mouth off on her sleeve, “Do you know where you are?” She says finally, after watching him eat for an uncomfortable amount of time.

He places his spoon down slowly, unsure where this conversation could lead, “No, I do not.” He answers respectfully.

She regards him for a long moment, “You are in the Realm of Madness. You were sent here because you did something terrible, I imagine.”

The world stalls.

“What?” he says blankly. Sure, this place was- was strange, weird, whatever but- of course Wu didn’t send him back! He wouldn’t unleash the ice emperor on ninjago, no- but he thought- why would he think he had any chance at going home? His stomach turns violently against the food he’d just eaten.

“Calm down.” She orders sharply, and he hates the part of himself that latches on to that. The part of him that wanted someone else to tell him what to do.

He balls his hands into fists and consciously moves his internal fans, the equivalent of taking a slow deep breath.

“We all call this place something different. Exile, eternal prison, hell- the kids from Chima have this silly, flowery name for it. Tomb, or something close. Ninjargons the only one that doesn’t call it what it is- a form of punishment.” She stands up, going into the kitchen and taking out two cups and a leather bag, “They only send the worst of us here to suffer. They consider it kinder than death. I used to agree.”

He focuses on the one thing in this conversation that doesn’t make him want to scream, ”Who is they?”

She sits again, popping the cap on the leather bag and pouring a dark spiced rum into her cup, ”Anyone who opposes you. The good people, the ones who don’t have the stomach for blood.” She caps the bag and slides it closer to him, offering.

He can hardly swallow past the lump in his throat, ”I did not want to hurt anyone-“

”Don’t make excuses for yourself.” She says coldly, any trace of maternal inflection replaced by a viscous intolerance for pity. She looks at him hard, “I know what that was.” She nods to the staff by the wall, “I know what you are. That staff in the hands of an elemental master- well, it’s not hard to connect the dots.”

He shakes his head, “no- it was not like that-”

“What, then?”

Zane swallows hard against the accusation in her tone and tries to organize his thoughts, “I- lost my memory, I did not know who I was-”

“So you hurt people.” She finishes flatly. He flinches. “And you were good at it, too. That’s why you’re here. None of that other shit matters, kid- all it comes down to is that you were a monster they needed to destroy.”

There’s no words he can string together to make anything okay.

She lets out a mirthless chuckle, “At least some people had their reasons. No memory, huh? So you did all the things you did… because you could.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time. The fire grows low. She stands up to tend to it, leaving him alone at the table.

”What am I supposed to do?” He asks softly.

”Suffer.” She says bluntly. “Survive. Pay your penance. There are plenty who take the easy way out. I don’t care.” She gets up to tend to the fire.

”Why am I here?”

Another log goes on the fire. She looks up at him like he’s irritating her, “I just told you.”

He winces again before clarifying, “No, why am I here, In your home?” She stays quiet so he adds, “You helped me, and I am beginning to understand that is not something you typically do.”

She snorts at that. Another long pause, “I was there. I saw you fall. Scavengers would have found you in no time and you’d be dead by now.” She motions to his body, “Mechanics are scarce. Mechanics as good as yours even more so. If you want to survive in this place, you’ll need to hide every part of yourself or they’ll tear you apart and barter with your insides.”

A life in hiding. A life in constant fear.

Alarm bells ring in his head, “What do you want from me?” Because he was vulnerable and helpless and if she wanted to rip his head off and offer his hard drive to the highest bidder- well, he couldn’t defend himself.

Part of him wonders- would you even try?

“Nothing.” she answers without hesitation, but there’s no insult at his insinuation. “A few years ago, maybe I’d have killed you myself. Not now. I’m too tired for that.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I am not a kind woman.” She continues slowly, “I never claimed to be. My cruelty cost me everything. Perhaps part of me wanted to do something good in the end- a drop in the bucket weighed against all my transgressions. What good does a monster saving another monster do? I don’t know.” she shifts the embers at the edge of the fire, her voice taking on a contemplative lilt, “and what good have I done you, preserving a life for you here?”

“...Thank you.” he offers.

She doesn’t laugh. He thinks she might want to, “I don’t deserve your gratitude. I have done nobody any good my whole life.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.” Zane argues softly, eyes straying over to the stuffed pigeon plushy again.

She’s follows his gaze. Without a second glance, she stomps out the embers that spread too close to the wall of the fire pit, “You should sleep. Tomorrow you will be on your own.” She adds a log to the fire and places a cover over the top to keep the fire burning longer.

He gets up slowly from the table, making his way across the floor on aching legs before gingerly laying down on his bedmat. She doesn’t take off any of her armor as she settles under her own blankets.

Exile. Eternal prison.

Hell.

this isn't hell. he'd been in hell in the never realm, when he was on that throne. Still, this is a punishment. The worst kind of punishment that could be executed.

Wu sent him here, to this place. He must have believed he belonged here.

Blood flashes in his mind's eye. Exposed organs, death rattles from punctured lungs, bodies thin with starvation after frost killed any crops-

He does belong here.

Monster.

The next morning- is it morning? Zane has no idea- he wakes up alone. It isn’t until he musters up the strength to climb the rocky opening to the surface that he finds her. She’s sitting near the opening of the cave criss cross, with her back ram-rod straight. In front of her is a massive wall of mist, reaching past the clouds in the dim purple-red sky. He doesn’t know what to do other than sit next to her, so he does that.

She doesn’t acknowledge him.

She’s holding a picture in her hand- not a modern photo that he knows, but something older. Something fragile.

“Is that your son?” He asks.

“Yes.” She says quietly. He’s maybe seven in the photo, still so young, with skin so pale it’s translucent and wisps of bright blood red hairs poking from his head. Veins, ribs, and organs are all visible through his skin where she’s posing with him. She’s wearing her mask and holding him close, and he’s smiling at the camera with too many teeth- some sharp and jagged. Behind them is a strange forest- this photo was taken here, in the Realm Of Madness.

“He’s gone now.” She says simply.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as much as I am.” there’s nothing else to say, so they watch the day pass.

She reaches up and pulls her mask off.

Her face is bumpy and fuzzy, almost like felt, with a hundred colors overlapping and banding in random waves that follow the raised ridges along her skin. Colors blend and mix in bright, technicolor bursts similar to the sheen on an oil spill- and they move along her face and neck in pulsing flashes like currents shifting on the ocean floor. It looks like someone had taken the way her reflection looked on turbulent water and shaped her skull from it, nothing about her symmetrical or smooth- she has no nose and he can’t find her mouth of eyes, but he knows she has them. They ate together. She lookers at him. Old feathers poke out of her skin in sporadic patches and he can’t tell whether or not shes grown them or simply lost all her others. His processor can’t comprehend what he’s looking at- it doesn’t compute. Every time her tries to formulate an opinion it’s as if he hits a computing error and he has to start all over again.

Her head expands and contracts as if it was breathing.

He can’t stop looking at her. She doesn’t seem to care.

“The Realm of Madness is not a mercy.” She says, her face splitting in half to reveal perfect white teeth- jarring in the mess of the rest of her, “It changes us. I have held on for a long time, But I am tired now, and I miss my son.”

She stands and deliberates for a moment before she tosses her mask and the feather cloak around her shoulders to the ground at his feet, “Take these. I don’t need them anymore. The others of this land call me Birdy- hide in that too.”

”You are leaving?” Zane asks, scrambling to his feet.

”I am the original monster in this realm- I am the first. My suffering is done, and I am going to rest now.” Birdy says, voice light with the relief of an ending, “I’ve paid the price. I’ve paid it all.”

She turns towards that abrupt wall of mist and takes her first step forward, heading straight for the thick wave of release waiting for her.

Zane stands as quickly as he can and follows her with the intent to do- something. He doesn’t know what. What was the mist? What did it do? It sounded like death- he couldn’t just let her do this- a loud red warning pops up in his vision the moment the gas contacts his inner workings.

WARNING ‽‽‽‽‽‽‽‽ RADIATION FIELD Processing failure imminent Motor function failure imminent Power source failure imminent RAM failure imminent

PROCEED WITH CAUTION

He steps back and stares into the mist, looking for her retreating back for several moments.

She’s gone.

He stays in Birdy's cave longer than he cares to admit. It feels wrong, but he just… doesn’t know what to do. For nearly a whole week after Birdy's disappearance into the mist, he’d still been reeling from the damage to his body from… everything that happened. His self repair programming wasn’t designed to tackle the mess he’d made of himself, but it should work well enough that he isn’t constantly leaking power and weak.

There was also the minor issue of massive emotional breakdowns he was struggling through every few hours, when he couldn’t stop thinking about everything that happened. He wasn’t exactly at his best. Compartmentalization takes time, and sixty years was a lot to pack away.

He spends most of his time putting away Birdys things- packing up the drawings on the wall in a wicker basket wrapped in leather to preserve the art work, folding old clothes and packing them inside too- there were baby clothes here. Shirts and shoes for toddlers, tunics for a child. He wasn’t going to stay here forever, and the way she spoke about scavengers… he didn’t think any other person in the realm would treat these precious items with the respect they deserved. So he bundles it all up and hides it under the wooden floorboards.

He finds a stash of handmade candles and lights two for Birdy and her son. Hopefully they are both at peace now.

The idea of staying here indefinitely crosses his mind, but he can’t quite bring himself to truly consider it. No matter how much he wants to just curl into a ball and turn to dust here, safe in this tiny little home, his skin crawls at the idea. This wasn’t made for him. The bed he’d been using wasn’t his. Zane was sick of settling into a place that wasn’t his to take- the throne he’d spent sixty years on wasn’t made for him, either. It was already bad enough that he was going to take her mask and her cloak, maybe even her name- but that was different from her home. The things she wore were a disguise, hiding away the honest pieces of herself.

Her home was where she was herself, genuinely. He couldn’t make a space for himself here. It wasn’t right.

Three weeks after everything, he puts on the mask.

It’s hard to see out of, and it feels awkward on his face. It wasn’t hand carved for him, but Birdy's warning sits bright and clear in his mind. He had to keep his face covered- he’d tried cloaking, but the hologram projectors along the nape of his neck and down his back were all damaged too badly and the image came out glitched. He clasps the feathered cap over his shoulder and prepares to venture out into the hostile world he’d found himself in.

Hostile. right.

He needed a weapon, and the only thing here… the only thing he truly felt confident wielding was the staff. Two more days pass before he can bring himself to pick it up. With the scroll gone, it’s just a normal staff with a normal blade that he used to gut a man who made an attempt on Vex’s life-

He slams down his mental shields on that memory before he can taste the blood it left behind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what you are.

Monster.

A day after that, once he’d found a pale canvas bag and filled it with food, spices, and a few other essentials he might need, he finally steps out of the hole and back into the world.

The wall of mist is still there, calm and steady. He’s not sure what else to do so he just… starts walking. He keeps the mist to his right and travels parallel to it, waiting for the swath of empty flat land to change to… anything else. The world is dim and bland, a colorless expanse of darkness that seems to go on forever. He keeps walking. His mind drifts back to the Never Realm but the memories burn.

He tries to think about something else, but the only other thing that jumps to the forefront of his mind are his friends, and that hurts in a different, just as painful way. He’s not ready to think about them. What would they think of him now?

He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Don’t make excuses for yourself, monster.

He keeps walking.

Two days pass before he sees a forest. He almost hesitates to leave the mist behind… it was ultimately familiar now, a security blanket of sorts. The mist held a threat he knew. The jungle was filled with possibilities, and in a place like this none of them could be any good. He detaches himself from the mist anyway and treks across the broad empty expanse of no man’s land between the two biomes before he steps in a place with deep red trees and strange flora.

He’s always been good with animals, and he attributes that to why he’s able to catch himself before he stumbles right into a predator's strike range. He avoids the tree that trembles with the weight of something massive up in its branches, he turns away from the distant sound of buzzing because nothing good sounds like that, and when he notices a large shape lumbering through the bushes up ahead he presses himself against the red bark and waits for it to pass. He keeps his mind focused on the world around him and doesn’t think about anything else.

That’s when he notices the strange oblong fruits hanging from a coiling vine growing up the side of a tree. They’re orange in color and are covered in thin hair-like protrusions. Zane reaches out and carefully runs the back of his finger over the fruit- the hair is soft and flexible, almost sleek. He grasps the fruit on one hand and plucks it, noticing how it comes off the vine without a fight. He tucks it in his satchel and keeps moving, now with his eyes peeled for more vegetation.

A string of bead-like vegetables here, completely flat speckled fruit there, a corkscrew tuber that’s twisting itself out of the ground. Zane may have been a homicidal maniac for the past sixty years, but he was also a chef. He’d have to analyze his haul later to make absolutely certain it’s edible so that the others can eat-

The sharp stab of pain feels almost physical as his processor stalls. He stops walking, sliding down the trunk of a tree to sit on the soft ground. There is no one else to cook for.

Loneliness crawls up his chest and sits in the back of his throat.

What have you done? He asks himself, staring blankly at the dark forest around him. You have ruined everything.

He doesn’t know how long he stays sitting there before he stands back up and moves on, more subdued than before. He’s been alone before, in the empty space after his father died and before Wu found him. He’d survived that loneliness then. He could survive this too. He was good at surviving. He keeps exploring the forest. It’s absolutely massive, and seems to go on forever- so he just keeps walking.

His internal navigation system is acting strange- it’s keeping track of his movement through the forest, and it seems to continuously loop over on itself even though he knows he hasn’t been walking in circles. It must be broken too.

Twenty six days pass before he comes upon a small camp set up between trees, large swathes of thickets cleared away for enough room for a fire and a few tents. He doesn’t notice that at all, not at first.

What he sees first is a strange animal. Despite his misgivings about the fauna in the forest, he can’t help but move in for a closer look. It had a fat body, broad neck, and a pointed head. It was precariously balanced on four spindly little legs. Stranger still, the long hair along the back of its neck was braided, and the tail sticking out from its hindquarters matched. Thrown over its back was a saddle. It looked similar to a saddle used for a walloper, all leather and straps with a blanket laid underneath for the animals comfort. It made a strange, apprehensive sound as he approached it from behind so he slowed down and stepped along the side so it could see him better. It shifted on its hooves but seemed to calm down when it's dark eyes were able to clock him.

It had strange colors, piebald black and white with a pink nose. Its tall ears pointed towards him, flicking as it sized him up.

He’s not at his best. If he were, he probably would have realized what exactly a saddle means- this animal belonged to someone. If he had realized that, he would have been on the lookout for the owner, and probably wouldn’t have boxed in so easily.

He’s still a ninja through and through, and while he may have been completely enamored by the strange beast he was nervous enough that his processor was still hyper-vigilant of the world around him. A subtle twang, the hiss of something fast-

He jerks his hand back half a second before an arrow whizzes past his fingers, burying itself in the tree directly behind him. He whips around and flicks the staff in his hand to grip it better, preparing for a fight- but the silence that settles after that is heavy and so, so still. There’s movement in the trees around him, at his sides, and when he strains his hearing as much as he can there’s the barest hint of footsteps behind him.

The bushes on the other side of the camp rustle and then part as a woman and a man approach him almost casually. Confident they have the upper hand- which they did. Zane is tense and stiff as they come to a stop in the middle of their camp, sizing him up casually. He wasn’t certain he could fight effectively enough to make it out of this in one piece.

“Hello there, stranger.” The woman says with a lazy smile. Tall, dark skin and salt and pepper hair, covered in a plethora of extra eyes that roll and dart as she speaks.

The massive wolf at her side bares his teeth and looks at Samira like she’s lost her mind, “Let me chase her off, Samira. She was trying to steal Cowie.”

Finally, Zane gets a good look at the man-

He’s not a man at all. Not a human, at least. He was an absolutely massive wolf- taller than Zane by at least two feet with ruddy gray fur. His ears, face, and basically anywhere Zane could see were striped with old battle scars, but the thing that stood out the most was the way one of his arms dragged along the ground, digging gouges in the hard packed dirt with the massive bone shards that spilled out of his skin in even spaces. With his head turned, Zane could see these bone spurs poked out of each vertebrae in his spine as well.

It changes us all. Right.

“Wox, darling, you need glasses.” The woman says airily as she steps closer. Zane backs up as far as he dares with the threat behind him still hidden, but she doesn't pursue any further. She stops walking at Cowies (?) side and she looks relaxed, but her hand is sitting purposefully on the hilt of a wicked looking knife. Zane imagines he doesn’t look too friendly with his staff in an iron-grip, but Birdy had told him pretty explicitly that the people here would gut him if he gave them a chance. She gestures to him, “Where’d you get that mask?”

Wox looks confused for a moment, scrutinizing Zane until he seems to realize that he’s not the original owner of the mask. He’s still glaring at him hatefully and Zane knows he has to stay aware, just in case the guy swings at him with the morning star that makes up his arm.

“It was a gift.” He says truthfully.

She stares at him for a long time. Her eyes make her nearly impossible to read- but it seems she has no problem seeing straight through him, “What’s your name?” She asks next.

He hesitates. Zane… Zane doesn’t feel right, anymore. Not after what he did. He couldn’t use any of his old nicknames either, and he’d sooner take a punch from Wox than tell her to call him Emperor. “Call me Birdy.” He says finally, awkward and more than a little unsure.

Her jaw works as she mulls that over. “Were you trying to steal my horse?”

Horse. So that's what that thing was. He shakes his head, “No ma’am.”

“Oh, he’s polite!” Samira brightens at the formality before she turns to her companion, “See, Wox, he wasn’t trying to take her!”

“Then what was he doing?” Wox growls, pinning him with a distrustful look.

Birdy feels a little silly and childish as he admits, “I was attempting to pet her.” He nearly cringes at his own words, shuffling on his feet and trying not to look guilty.

Samira grins, and there’s a spark in her eye, “You can pet her.” She says graciously, beckoning him over. She drops her hand from the hilt of her knife, “She can be a little skittish around new people, but if i’m here she should be fine.”

There's a long moment where no one moves before Birdy finally takes a step forward. Despite everything, he was still a sucker for a good pet. He approaches slowly, keeping his eyes on Wox, before he reaches out a gloved hand and runs it down the horse's thick neck. He can’t feel the texture very well through his gloves, but he feels when she presses closer to the touch and he can't help the small smile that blooms under his mask.

“My name is Samira.” She introduces herself kindly, but she’s watching him- looking for any sort of reaction to her name, “Here, pet from her nose up. She likes that.”

Birdy follows her instruction, watching in fascination as the horse makes an adorable whinny sound at the affection.

“I have to apologize for Wox. he can be a bit protective of our things.” She says with a wince, “He means well.”

“It is alright.” He pulls his hand away, “Thank you for allowing me to pet her.”

Samira grins wide at him, with a bit too many teeth, “Of course. It’s nice to meet you… Birdy.”

He inclines his head.

She hums a little, “We’re headed back to Oasis here, soon. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Oasis?”

She smiles that same, too-wide smile. As if he’s playing right into her hand, “It’s a refuge for the people stranded here. I’m like the mayor, you could say. Wox is my second in command and Barath- he’s around here somewhere- is the brains of the operation. We built it so the people here could have a community and a place to call home.”

The look in her eyes feels sickly similar to Vex’s, but Zane shoves that thought away immediately. Vex’s cruelty was too fresh, too raw and recent. He shouldn’t let Vex warp his view of Samira- besides, there’s no cord connected to his head for her to rip out. She couldn’t take his memories. He wouldn't allow himself to become even more of a monster than he already was.

He rapidly runs through his options. They were… extremely limited. Sure, he could decline- and she seemed willing to accept that answer and allow him to leave with no trouble, but then he’d be right back where he started. Alone, walking through this forest without a clue of what to do or where to go, without any knowledge of the realm. Aimless wandering.

Maybe one of his biggest weaknesses is that he craves a purpose.

“If you do not mind my presence, I will accompany you.” He says formally.

Wox snorts roughly, “We’re taking in strays, now?”

Samira makes a motion with her hand and more people come trundling from the forest around them and begin breaking down camp, “I took you home, didn’t I?” She responds with a mischievous smile, then adds, “Besides, he’s not a stray. He’s one of us.” She says with a wide grin.

They only start moving when Barath returns. He’s a strange man, with a pair of thick glasses that only seem to enhance the way his eyes dart around wildly. He’s almost constantly taking notes, scribbling down observations from the world around them. When he first sees Birdy, he cocks his head to the side like a curious dog would and says, “Did you kill her?”

Birdy jerks at the question, “No.” He says, too defensive, “She gave me her mask willingly.”

“That is not like her.” He says simply, squinting at Birdy. A moment passes before he flips to a new page in his little notebook and scribbles down a new note, “I don’t believe you.” He says simply, and walks away before Birdy can say anything else.

He hangs back and tries not to get in the way as people collapse tents and stamp out the fire pit. He would offer to help, but the people here are whispering to themselves and throwing him unwelcoming glances. It seems Barath is not the only one who believes he’d bloodied his hands for this mask.

“You’re quite the sensation.” Samira says as she slings a pack over Cowies back, “Don’t be discouraged by their attitude. It’s been a long while since we’ve had a newcomer sent here.” She looks at him curiously, and Birdy doesn’t realize she’s fishing for information he shouldn’t give.

“I did not mean to make anyone uncomfortable.” He murmurs, all but confirming his recent arrival.

She smiles sharply, “We’re villains, Birdy. Skepticism is in our nature. They’ll come around.”

He shifts uncertainty at the reminder of who exactly he’s surrounded by, and Samira tracks that movement with knowing eyes.

Barath pulls out a heavy looking dial from his bag and holds it up for a moment before he begins walking away from camp, disappearing into the woods. Wox notices immediately, “Oy, wait for the rest of us!” he snaps, and the small party scrambles after him.

The trek though the forest is a strange thing- Barath twists and turns randomly, cuting a strange path through the foliage that Samira, Wox, and the others all dutifully follow. When Birdy checks his internal systems, he realizes the looping path problem he’d been facing is nonexistent now. Samira watches him quietly from on top of Cowie. She’d asked him to stay close to her, and as they walk her eyes stay fixed on him.

She misinterprets his body language, “We’re not walking in circles.” She informs him.

“I know.” He says without thinking.

There’s no reaction from her other than a curious hum, “Do you?”

He wisely stays quiet this time.

Another hour passes before Samira speaks again, “Do you know why we have to take a path like this?”

He shakes his head.

“We call it the evershift.” She says, and proceeds to spend the next few minutes explaining the way this realm is designed to drive a person crazy. Straight lines become circles. The cardinal directions are meaningless. To navigate through this place, you have to understand how the earth shifts. One wrong move, and you’ll be lost. “Barath invented a compass- he doesn’t like it when we call it that, but I've never been mechanically inclined. I’ll call it like I see it. It helps us navigate through this place accurately.”

Birdy redirects more power into his navigation system so he takes on more information, making a map and comparing the way the ground moves so he can begin to travel on his own. It’s a slow process, but now he has an idea of how to start.

“Tell me about yourself.”

He glances at her uncertainly.

Even his hesitation seems to please her, “Alright. I’ll tell you about myself first, hmm?” she leans back, “I was born in Cloud Kingdom centuries ago- I know, I look fantastic for my age. I was, essentially, a daycare worker. I took care of the children of the scribes in the main hall.”

Wox glances back at her but doesn’t comment.

“I saw a great deal of destiny's written… and I came to disagree with the system.” She says lightly, “War, famine, death, sickness- why must we write it? So I started a rebellion. The elders weren’t happy about that, so now I am here.”

She looks at him expectantly, and Birdy hesitates. “I am from… the Never Realm.” He says, stilted.

“Not originally, hm?” She asks, “You don’t speak with the right cadence.”

“...Ninjago has not been my home in a very long time.”

There’s an intrigued light in her eyes, “Just who are you, Birdy?”

“I do not know.” He admits, the truth of it making his circuits curl in sharp pain. He used to be Zane. He used to be the Ice Emperor. Now he was stuck in a realm he didn’t know wearing a mask and hiding in a name that wasn't his. He didn’t know who he was.

“There is plenty of time to figure it out.” She says kindly, and allows him to mull over his identity crisis in peace over the rest of the trip back home.

His first impression of Oasis is that it’s far larger than he anticipated. He didn’t expect this realm to be filled with so many people- were there really this many people banished to this place? All ages, all races, hundreds of people who were so horrible they were exiled to this hell to never return? He follows the group quietly as they pass through a set of large gates and wind around deep halls until the reach the entrance to a stable. Samira dismounts Cowie and greets another woman who was waiting for her return.

“Ila.” Samira smiles as she hugs her friend.

“How was the mission?” Ila asks, the tentacles pouring out of her belly wrapping around Samira in greeting.

“Very successful. We were able to extract four funeral flowers before the mist became too caustic.” She grins triumphantly.

Ilas two toned eyes peek over Samiras shoulder curiously, zeroing in on Birdy.

“And,” Samira adds, “We ran into a new arrival.” pulling away, she motions to Birdy.

He steps closer, “Hello. Call me Birdy.” He offers his hand.

“You’re not afraid?” Ila says in wonder, pushing her curious tentacles down so she can shake his hand with her own.

Birdy was good at surviving, and part of that meant adapting and doing it quickly, “I am not.” he says truthfully, even as her tentacles wiggle free to touch his gloves and the edge of his sleeve inquisitively.

“Ila is my personal assistant and chef.” Samira introduces.

Birdy feels himself perk up, “Chef?”

“You like to cook?”

“I do.” He says sincerely, carefully extracting his hand before Ilas tentacles can wiggle under his gloves and touch bare metal.

Samira smiles at that, “Why don’t you show our friend the kitchen while Barath, Wox, and I take the flowers to the lab for processing?”

That’s how Birdy ends up here, deep within the halls of Oasis palace marveling at the foreign technology set up around the room. Most of it is old, traditional ways of cooking- brick ovens, rooms for drying and preserving meats and spices, fire pits with huge pots and pans, a well dug into the earth that brims with strange not-quite-right water. The only bit of actual mechanical engineering in the room is a massive metal freezer filled with fresh meats and vegetables.

“This,” Ila points at the strange hairy fruit he’d pulled from his bag, “Is called filler fruit. Packed with protein, it’s a good, hearty meal.” They’d been going through the things he’d scavenged in the forest and taken from the original Birdy's home slowly. “Not much can be done with it flavor wise, though.”

She teaches him about everything in his bag that’s edible and some things that aren’t (“It makes for a nice perfume if you soak it,” She says about the strange corkscrew tuber, “But it’s toxic to eat.”) She goes down the line until she stops at a jar of pale purple ground spice, “Oh, this is basically mustard seed.” She sighs wistfully, “I used to make candied fruits using mustard. The kick it adds is divine.”

Birdy blinks before he pushes it a little closer to her, “You are welcome to keep it.” He says sincerely.

She smiles thinly, “You’re very sweet, but I can’t.” She hesitates for a long moment, “Barath hates the taste, so I don’t even keep it in stock.”

Not long after this, Wox appears in the kitchen, “I’ve got your room ready.” He says gruffly, obviously unhappy that Birdy will be staying under the same roof as he is.

“My room?”

“Samira insists you stay as long as you like.” He jerks his chin, “Follow me.”

He falls into a routine here, accidentally. He helps Ila with breakfast and lunch before she has to attend to other duties, he joins Samira at her private table for dinner at her insistence, and he learns all he can about everything the realm has to offer. The longer he settles in, the more irritated Wox becomes. Even Ila starts to subtly prod him about his conversations with Samira- but there’s not much to tell. She’s firmly established herself as a friend and doesn't push for information or say anything uncouth or untoward.

One day, after dinner, she invites him to her office.

She pours herself a generous cup of some type of whiskey, sipping it slowly as they sit in companionable silence.

“It was chaos when I first came here.” She sighs softly, a wave of exhaustion weighing down her shoulders ““There was no community, no society- just violence and lots of pain. You’ve noticed it, I'm certain. We’re all… different, here. Our bodies have been changed by the realm- that is the nature of madness.”

He shakes his head when she offers him a glass, but she’s not offended. “Mutations are hard on the body, Birdy. Uncomfortable at best, agony at worst.” She fishes a key from her pocket and uses it to open a hidden compartment in her desk, “You’ve toured the Jelly farm. You asked me what we were farming… well, I think you’re ready to know. When I first saw a jelly, I watched her use the poison on her lures to take down an undertaker.” She fishes out a small vial made of dark glass, impossible to see what’s inside. “Paralyzed it and ate it right up, and it gave me an idea. She numbs you first, before she eats you. If I could use her poison, refine it just right, maybe I could take that numbness and use it to take away that pain.” She uncorks the vial and tips it over her palm, a small pink marble rolling out to settle over her heart line, “And with a bit of help from Barath, I did it, and I built Oasis around this thing right here. It’s amazing how easy it is to bring people together when pain is out of the equation.” He studies it for a long moment, “That is a noble thing to do.” He offers quietly. “After everything I’ve been through, Birdy… I know pain. I can see it.” She takes a moment to really study him, “You’re in a lot of pain, Aren’t you?”

His throat feels tight and he struggles to swallow. She holds the pill out, “Here.” Samira says gently, “it works on emotional pain, too- and it’ll help you later on, once the chaos of this realm sinks its teeth into you. It will only get worse from here.”

There’s no guarantee it’ll work on him. There’s a possibility it will. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep again, without nightmares- maybe he could think about his friends without his chest feeling like it’s caving in on him. He’d been keeping himself distracted, had been doing everything in his power to keep his mind away from the brutal parts of his life that threatened to tear his heart from his chest. He was in pain. A constant, bruising agony that ate away at his processor in quiet moments that threatened to kill him with it’s cruelty.

Monster.

Suffer.

Penance.

What does he deserve?

He reaches out and slowly, tenderly closes her fingers around the pill and pushes it back towards her chest, “Thank you, but I cannot accept this.”

She looks at him strangely, her expression unreadable.

“Okay.” She says finally, dropping it back into the bottle, “...But the offer still stands. The first one is always free.”

“You’ll have a few hours from the first entrance before the mist induces irreparable delirium and you’ll be too confused to leave.” Barath says jovially, “If that happens, try and make it as close to the exit as you can so I can have someone go in for your body. It’s been too long since I've done a decent dissection.” He says with a bright smile.

“...I will do my best.” Birdy responds.

“Don’t listen to him, you’ll be fine.” a woman to his left reassures him, wrapping thick straps of leaver over her hands.

“No, you should definitely listen to him.” Wox remarks sourly, “He may be a nutjob, but he knows his science.”

“I’ve been in the mist plenty- I’ve got a good feel for it.” Lena continues, “I can get us out before things get to the point of no return.”

This is the first and only time Birdy has seen Samira look anxious, “The flowers are deeper than they’ve been before. Are you sure you’ll be able to reach them?”

Lena frowns at the ground and finishes wrapping her hands, “Just have some of the pinks ready for me when we get out,” She says, her fingers drumming on her thighs at the thought of a brand new sleeve of pills waiting for her. She shakes out the tension in her shoulders and smiles at Birdy, “Ready?”

When Birdy had volunteered to go into the mist, he’d had a good idea of what he was signing up for. He knew this was a risky thing- Samira said there were people who refused to go back in, even if she offered them a cure pill in return. Barath knew it was some type of toxin in the mist that attacked the flesh, preying on organic material with extreme prejudice. He hadn't quite realized it was radiation, and Birdy wasn’t able to explain how he knew that so he couldn’t say much.

What stuck out to him the most about Baraths notes on the graveyard was that it wasn’t so hard on inorganic material. You didn’t get much more inorganic than a robot. Theoretically, he should be able to last far longer than anyone else- even if his own systems were certain he would eventually go down like anyone else. Part of him insists that this doesn’t make any sense- he has to remind himself this is the realm of madness. Nothing makes sense. That was the point.

He inclines his head. Lena gives him a thumbs up and, with Baraths compass in hand, they plunge into the mist.

There’s no talking in the mist- keep breathing shallow and even, and don’t do anything strenuous. Nothing that could move the mist through your system faster than necessary. Absolutely no running. It’s a painfully slow affair. The little flickers of life he sees in the mist is strangely familiar- green grass. Brown dirt. If he were in the height of delirium, collapsed on the ground and struggling to get his bearings straight, he might think he was home again.

He can feel the mist seeping inside his mechanics. It feels strange and unsettling, like fingers brushing over his ribs and internal wires- but so far there’s no confusion, and he doesn’t have that strange buzzing feeling Barath describes as symptom zero. Lena, however, does seem to be feeling something. She keeps shaking her head like she’s trying to flick water out of her ears- but ever the professional, she soldiers on.

Deeper and deeper they trek, and as they walk Lena gets more and more lethargic.

There’s a weight settling over his skeleton too, but he’s still able to keep moving at a steady pace. She has to keep pausing to read the compass, changing directions every now and then into a winding route through the mist. She stares at the compass longer and longer each time, like trying to read text that’s too small. She's shaking her head more often.

The flowers Lena signs to him, pointing at the tall white buds rising out of the mist in front of them. Moving her hand in the proper configuration to convey that message seems to be a monumental task.

You okay? Birdy signs back, worried.

She looks confused, like she’s unable to understand what he said. She just turns around and goes to the flowers without responding, taking out a small paring knife and cutting them free at the base. Birdy follows suit- each cut spits out a fresh cloud of mist, thicker and whiter than the air around them.

He cuts another flower.

Why was he cutting these flowers again? There’s a reason, isn’t there.

Holding three in his hand, he stares down at the delicate petals. They’re pretty.

He blinks and shakes his head hard- he was on a mission. He cuts another before his processor catches up with him and reminds him to check on… on the girl who came in with him. Lisa?

He glances over and for a second he’s not sure what he’s looking at. There’s a lump on the ground. She’s got only one flower in her hand.

The flowers are so pretty. Why were they taking these?

A red warning pops up in his vision and he can't read it, the words too jumbled and wonky to piece together. That doesn’t make sense- his automatic systems weren’t damaged in the fall. Yet, he can’t understand the warning. The mist. He needs to get out of the mist.

When did he get on his hands and knees?

He stands up on unsteady legs and there’s a brief moment of clarity- he had to get out. They both had to get out, now. He stumbles over to Lauren and grabs her around the waist, hauling her up and holding her loose limbed body in his elbow like a football.

“Nn.. no.” She groans, clawing at the ground until she can wrap her hands around the flowers he’d dropped to grab her, “Need… need pinks…” she slurs desperately, clutching the delicate buds to her chest.

“We have to get out of here.” He argues, surprised at how steady his voice was. He still had time. The mist that the flowers spat was concentrated and strong, but now that he’d stopped harvesting them the fog had receded enough to allow him space to think. He has to wait until she’s got the flowers before he can walk, her struggling making it hard to keep his steps straight without falling.

He starts moving while he can think somewhat straight again. He doesn’t have time to spare to study the compass- each passing second threatens him with that looming confusion. His internal navigation is still steady. He has to trust that the mist hasn’t ruined that yet- so he focuses all his brain power into following the path back out. Less twists and turns, now that he’d mapped the way in. he should be able to get them out fast.

He needed to get them out fast. He was okay, he knew that-

Her nose is dripping with blood, bright red and harsh against the pale orange fur on her face. She’s panting and muttering something- Too far. I went too far. I had to- i needed pinks- i need- we went too far- and her time is running out. His arms feel heavy, but he can still carry her. He won’t leave her. He won’t.

Eons pass. It feels like years. Part of him whispers that it would be so easy to lie down, a homesick urge to rest among familiar green grass and dirt. It would feel so good.

He breaks out of the mist into fresh air and his knees hit the dirt again. He drops Lena in a heap on the ground and coughs up white mist until his internal fans run clear again. Thankfully, he still has the presence of mind to shift his mask to keep his face covered while he spits out thick white mucus.

Samiras knees hit the dirt beside him, “Birdy-” She reaches for him but he sits up, batting her hand away.

“I am fine. Tend to Lena.” He says roughly, swaying in place.

When he looks at her, she’s wide eyed in shock, “You can still form sentences?” She asks, awed.

“How long were we in there?” he asks.

“Twelve hours.” She whispers, “Every other team was unable to return before they hit eight.”

Samira insists he and Lena both ride Suncup back to Oasis even if he argues that he’s fine to walk. Halfway back, he’s grateful for her forcing him on the saddle. His head is still pounding, but he’s mostly happy that being up on horseback makes it easier for Samiras and Wox to field Baraths burning desire to poke and prod and interrogate him on exactly why he was so unaffected by the mist. He can’t think of a suitable lie with the exhaustion still weighing him down, so he’s grateful for the obstacles between the two of them. It also gives him a chance to monitor Lena- she hadn’t woken up yet, and her nose was still dripping blood on Suncups gray coat, but she was alive.

Barath wasn’t certain she’d make it back. They just had to monitor her until they could get her to Oasis’s infirmary. As long as everything went smoothly, Birdy was sure she’d be okay. Her vitals were stable.

This is the Realm of madness, and he’s part of the ninja. That’s a double whammy that ensures nothing will go smoothly.

He’s pulling Suncups reigns before he really even processes that everything has gone to hell, yanking the horse off the beaten path and into the underbrush. He whips Suncup around a tree and into the foliage and leaps off, pulling Lena with him and tucking her in the roots of a massive interwoven bush before he rushes back out to help the others.

It looks like a sand eel, almost. The same massive, gaping mouth and tiny eyes, but that’s where the similarities end- the rest of it is thick with fat, it’s twelve legs segmented and hairy and ending in long thick claws for climbing trees like a sloth. One wouldn’t have been bad, but six had dropped around them. Pack hunters. Wox smashes one on the side of the head with his mutated hand and it’s skull cracks and gives- a gruesome sight as blood splatters across the floor.

Barath is standing off to the side dodging debris and eagerly taking notes in his little booklet, more interested in documenting the creatures strange chittering communications than stopping the ambush. The handful of other warriors that’s accompanied them are trying to beat back the rest of the horde to little effect.

Samira jumps to the right, rolling across the dirt as the largest of the beasts attempts to flop its body on top of her- it’s preferred hunting method, it seems. Crushing its prey to death with its massive weight. She leaps back to her feet, turning around too slow- she doesn’t expect it to roll.

Birdy throws himself across the clearing and into Samiras side, the two of them sliding across the ground out of range of the beast's death roll. Birdy is back up in record time, and a wave of vertigo rolls over him. The mist is still lingering in his system- but there’s no time to breathe. The eels are eager to eat, and they don’t care for a fair fight. The alpha zeroes in on Birdy and charges, massive muscles bunching under it’s thick skin with deadly intent.

He hasn’t used ice since the Never Realm. He couldn’t bring himself too- it had been a tool of oppression for so long that the idea of even forming a snowflake made Birdys skin crawl. There was no other option here, though. Not with the beast bearing down on him, not with how weak he still was. He’d have to run after this, take off away from the group- if they’d kill him for his mechanics, there was no telling what they’d do to use his powers.

He reaches deep in his chest, in the cold space that’s always been there-

He flings his hand out. He’d freeze the ground. Their claws were too wide and flat to grip ice. Without traction, it wouldn’t be able to fight. None of them would. That had to be enough. So he draws up from that well deep in his heart and prepares himself to run and hope that Lena will be okay-

-And nothing happens.

The world stutters to a stop.

Ice, the one constant in the past sixty years- the one thing he could truly rely on, even in his darkest moments. His faithful companion during the good at the bad. It didn’t respond to him anymore. The cold chill in his chest is a echo of something he used to have. There’s an empty cavern inside him that expands suddenly, like realizing it was there has allowed it room to breathe and now its crushing his power core and all his internal wiring with the nothingness growing inside him. It stretches down his arms and legs, out to the very tips of his fingers until he is a hollow husk of a man who used to be someone important. Every piece of his body feels fragile and thin, everything he is suddenly a threadbare piece of cloth so thin and insignificant one wrong move will crumble him to dust. He is powerless.

He is alone.

It’s autopilot that saves him and Samira both. The deep set need to survive has him springing away from the beast's path, arm looped around Samiras waist to drag her with him, and it’s his one stroke of good luck that he’d been in front of a tree when the thing charged him. It smashes into bark and it squeals in pain, blood running from its mouth in thick rivulets. It begins to claw up the same tree it’s just dented with its head, chittering a strange song that has the four remaining beasts all pull back. The alpha scrambles up the trunk and leaps across the canopy, the rest of its pack scurrying after it until there is only their little scouting party and the fading crackle of shifting tree branches left.

Mourning has become such a constant part of his life here that he should be able to shelve the loss of Ice and continue on as normal, but he can’t. It feels so much more visceral than what has happened so far- he’d lost everything. Why this, too? Why?

What have I done?

What does a monster deserve?

Suffer.

He swallows down the scream that threatens its way up his throat. He needed to distract himself, he needed to put this away for a moment when he is alone and can fall apart in peace. he can't think about it. he's good at not thinking about things.

He stands up and looks to Samira, who’s already up and briskly brushing the dirt off her pants. Birdy jogs over into the woods where he’d left Suncup and Lena, pleasantly surprised that the skittish horse hadn’t booked it the moment they’d dismounted. He offers the horse a shaky pet before he eases Lena out of the bushes he’d hid her in and back onto Suncups back, leading the two of them back to the main path. Another party member had been injured, and Birdy insists he ride with Lena the rest of the way back to town.

It’s a quiet, somber affair now- everyone on edge, prepared for the next attack that never comes.

Ila waits for them in the stable, and when they arrive with injured she rushes out to fetch the nurses to help. Birdy accompanies Lena to the medical wing- he’s not sure why. He feels responsible for her now, after protecting her. He just had to see it through to the end. He has to make sure she was okay, after everything. They allow him to sit with her after they check her over.

Two hours after they finally make it back, Lena wakes up.

“How are you feeling?” Birdy asks quietly. The room is lit with only a few candles, and Lena still squints against the brightness.

“Did we get the flowers?” She asks instead of responding, whispering it the way people with strep throat whisper. He remember how raw his insides felt after the mist- it would be doubly worse for someone not so mechanically inclined.

“Yes, you did.” Samira answers for him, stepping into the dark room at the perfect time.

Lena straightens up at the sight of her, “My payment?” She asks with a weak smile, eyes flashing with need. Samira produces another of those black vials and hands it over to Lena, who struggles to pop the cork so she can pour all six pills into her palm with a happy sigh.

“As for your payment…” Samira turns to Birdy with a tight frown, “Not only did you get the flowers, but you saved Lenas life and mine. I… owe you.” She bites out the last two words, like it’s agony to say it. Like she wanted nothing less than to offer those words.

By his side, Lena gasps.

“So,” Samira continues, pulling out a small leather bag, “I am going to give you this. Then we’ll be even.” She tosses him the bag.

He catches it automatically, curiously opening the top to reveal an oblong black pill. “Samira, I do not want any painkillers-”

“It’s not a painkiller.” Lena says, voice dripping with longing.

“You survived the mist longer than anyone else ever has.” Crossing her arms, Samira looks away, “There was another like that- his trips to the mist changed him faster, damaged him far more quickly than the rest of us. That’s what happened to you too, isn’t it? You haven't been here the same time as the rest of us, but if you ran into Birdy then you were by the mist. You’re mutated, and it’s far along.”

Lena leans forward, “It’s the cure.” She says reverently, “It takes away the chaos and the pain. It returns you to who you used to be, before this realm destroyed you.”

He looks down at the little pill. So unassuming for the respect it demanded, for the amount of good it could do.

But he was a robot, and he didn’t need it. He was a monster, he wouldn't deserve it.

He picks up the glass of water by Lenas bedside and holds it out to her, dropping the pill bag onto her lap, “Take it.” he says simply, “I do not want it.”

He’d be a fool to ignore the way Lenas face twisted with pain each time she moved- her skin was thick and heavy from the realm, and it weighed so much it threatened to slough off her body each time so moved too quickly. She was covered in silver-white striped stretchmarks under her fur and scars from where her skin had gotten so heavy it’d torn free from her muscles underneath. Her tail was docked halfway down- it’s grown too heavy and had dragged along the ground to the point it was raw and weeping blood too often for her to salvage it. Leather wraps, tight clothes, anything compression helped- but eventually her body would grow so heavy that she wouldn’t be able to move. With the cure, she could be okay for a while longer.

“No!” Samira snaps angrily, immediately taking a dangerous step closer, “You can’t just- give it away. That was my repayment to you, for what you did for me.”

Lena scrambles to take the pill before Samira can make a move for it, swallowing it dry before following it with a hasty gulp of water.

“You gave it to me, so it is my choice what I do with it.” He argues back.

Samira snarls, “That is not how it works. I didn’t do anything for you, now! I still owe you!” she waves her hands around angrily.

“I do not care about repayment!”

“That doesn’t matter!” She lets out an explosive breath, pinching the bridge of her nose like fighting an oncoming headache, “Fine. fine! I’ll repay you some other way!” she spins on heel and storms out of the room, a vacuum of fury being sucked out with her.

Birdy stares after her, confused and irritated. He didn’t want pinks, he didn’t want the cure!

“Thank you.” Lena says quietly. He turns around to face her- her skin hasn’t changed much outwardly, but there's a blissed look of relief relaxing the constant furrow of her brow. A pink pill is missing from the pile in her lap too, “I owe you.”

He feels a fresh bubble of frustration well up his chest, “No, you do not.”

She relaxes back onto the pillow in her bed, “Yes, I do. That’s how it works here. You do something for someone, and they owe you- the bigger the favor, the more you can ask for. For a cure pill, I’ll give you whatever you want… anything you ask.”

He rests his hand lightly on hers, the anger fading into exhaustion, “I do not want anything from you.” He says quietly.

There’s a long moment of silence, “I have to repay you so… I’ll let you in on a secret, okay?”

“You do not have to-”

“Samiras the bad guy.” She mutters softly, “She wants you to think she’s this reformed philanthropist, but that’s not true. She wants control. It’s all she’s ever wanted, and this is how she gets it.” She begins to languidly put the leftover pills back in their case, “Pinks are painkillers, yeah, but they’re also the most addicting thing you can put in your body. It only takes one, and you’re dependent on them- everyone wants one all of the time, and Samira controls the production. She and Ila are the only ones who actually know how to formulate them, so no one else can replicate it. Oasis isn’t a town, it’s her territory- and there’s a price to be paid by everyone who steps food on her soil.”

“A price?”

She shrugs, “food, spices, textiles, labor- all of it is promised in exchange for pinks. If we don’t comply, we don’t get any. It’s how she maintains control- and no one has any dirt on her, so no one can leverage anything to change the status quo. Ila is completely loyal to her, so if Samira is killed I think she’d let this place burn before she blabbed. No one can do anything but live by her rules.”

“Samira has never owed anyone a serious favor… until you. I imagine you won’t be able to get anything too outrageous, but it’s the principle of the matter. Everyone will know she owes you before long, and that’s not a good look for her. If people realize she's not infallible they'll start to get ideas.”

She pins him with her brilliant gold eyes, her gaze intense and focused, “You need to be careful, Birdy. You have a target on your back now- she’ll go to great lengths to discredit you and lower your reputation. You might even be in an ‘accident’ soon… you’re in the lions den, kid.” She smiles at the irony of that statement coming from a lioness, “Don’t let your guard down.”

“And maybe, if you can… get out of town.”

#ninjago #ninjago never the dark #zane julien #ninjago oc samira #spinchip fic #child death #drug abuse #addiction #this is a heavy chapter !!!!!#word count wise and content wise #rip og birdy #blood #death #sorry zane !

36 notes · View notes

nerdalmighty · 6 months ago

Text

BG3 Tag Game!

I was tagged by @khywren!!! Thank you!!!!!!

I'm going to tag @vanilkaplays @okthisway @maladaptive-menace @riddlerosehearts @starkspi and anyone else who wants to play along!

Favorite romance: It will surprise no one to know that it's Astarion. I find his backstory so incredibly interesting and I love his dumbass personality. At the end of the day, he just wants to do whatever is the most hilarious and I adore that. I especially love how soft he gets when you get together in Act 2. I could go on and on but I'll never be able to fully articulate my love for him.

Favorite class to play: Bard! I love that they're really the jack of all trades and are pretty good at everything, including spells and sword fighting. Persuasion and deception are SO helpful in this game, plus playing music to distract crowds and cause shenanigans in Baldur's Gate is wonderful.

Favorite NPC: I think Raphael. While yeah he absolutely SUCKS, I'm obsessed with his obsession with his own voice. He's a thespian, he's a freak, he's an idiot. I love it. But yes, I did kill his ass.

Favorite song off the soundtrack: Probably the Harpy Song. I listen to it a lot in my spare time, especially when I'm working on a specific fic I'm attempting to write. I'm a big fan of haunting melodies and, unsurprisingly, the concept of hypnotizing music.

Tell us a little about your Tav: I wrote a pretty long post about her here, but my Tav is named Birdie and she's a bard who was born and raised at the Water Queen's House. Previous iterations of her had her as a siren (hence the deep love of the Harpy Song), but I'm still not 100% sure if this version of her is. Basically, she's a mermaid ass goof whose main gang of idiots include Astarion, Gale, and Shadowheart. Chaos often ensues.

Something you wish was in the game: I know this game is huge. I know there's probably stuff people haven't even discovered yet. But god would I love some more camp animations. More interactions between the companions AT camp. Cut scenes where there should probably be cut scenes (The second time Astarion drinks your blood, Wyll celebrating the defeat of Ansur, etc). I really really love this game, but I'd love to hang out with my friends EVEN MORE.

Do you create fanworks? Share something with us: Oh boy I'm TRYING. I've never really written fanfiction before but the stupid vampire has inspired me to do so. I'm in the process of writing two different fics (one multi-chapter, one one-shot on the longer side) and am having a blast but I'm not sure if/when I'll post them. I've noticed my writing style is very similar to the way I write scripts, which is what I went to college for, so they're full of dialogue and quick, dumb banter. It might not be for everyone, but I'm having The Most Fun! Let me know if you'd maybe want to see more? Here's a silly excerpt from the one-shot (she may or may not get smutty later on 👀):

There was no sign of the vampire, save for an open hatch beneath the stone of the tower leading into what you presumed was a cellar of sorts. Off to the side was a discarded set of Thieves’ Tools. Yup, that’ll be him.

Rolling your eyes affectionately, you began to descend into the basement below.

Before you could even make it to the bottom, however, you heard Astarion’s voice tinged with annoyance. “Don’t bother, darling. I was just coming back up.”

You paused on the ladder and looked down at him. “That bad?”

“Eh, a few coins, some food. Nothing worth risking one’s life over. Foolish gnome.”

“Shame,” you pouted down at him, not an ounce of real sympathy behind the word.

He smirked as he met your eye. “Go,” he said, indicating you should climb back up the ladder. “There was a rather large amount of smoke powder though. That could be fun.”

When you emerged back into the early evening air, you turned to help Astarion out. “Maybe you can blow up a quaint little gnomish village.”

Astarion’s eyes glittered with delight. “Oh, do you think there’s one around here? That would be- Oh. You’re joking.”

You nodded.

“Gods, you’re no fun.” He sighed dramatically and then started back towards the Blighted Village proper.

You scoffed in mock offense. “I’m a lot of fun!”

Astarion tsked. “If you have to say you’re a lot of fun, odds are, you’re lying to yourself.” He shot a challenging half smile at you from over his shoulder.

“How dare you,” you laughed.

“Such a pity, too,” he went on. “Aren’t bards supposed to be entertaining?”

You made a sound of agony, which had Astarion fully turning back to look at you. You threw a hand to your heart and staggered towards him. “You wound me, Astarion. Look upon me with pity and remember me fondly!” You set an arm on his shoulder and let your body weight go, as if collapsing from a killing blow.

Astarion was quick to catch you under your arms. He made a show of groaning about how heavy you were now that your body had gone completely limp. After you’d hung loosely from his grip for a few seconds, he finally yielded. “Alright, enough.”

You resumed control of your body and stood up straight, a smug look on your face. “I’m fun.”

“Dramatic.”

“Theatrical.”

“Annoying.”

“Endearing.”

“Loud.”

“Enthusiastic-”

Just then, a loud howl came from a barn a little ways off.

You and Astarion eyed each other.

“Was that you?” Astarion asked.

“‘Was that me?!’ I’m not THAT loud.”

“Could have fooled me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on.” You started in a light jog towards the barn.

Astarion groaned. “You can’t be serious.” He caught up with you easily. “Haven’t we done enough heroing for today?”

You looked at him thoughtfully. “One more act of heroism probably won’t kill you.”

“It might!”

“Oh, now who’s being dramatic?” You came to a stop at the double doors.

“I-” Astarion floundered, then pursed his lips and crossed his arms.

“That’s what I thought.”

26 notes · View notes

mustainegf · 7 months ago

Note

kinky sex with 2010 james plsplspls 🙏

First off, I’m SO SORRY that this is so late, I know this is a req from last month, but it turned out SO GOOD trust 🙏🏼

ALSO GUYS IM NOT IGNORING REQUESTS I HAVE 13 FINISHED FICS IN MY DRAFTS!!!

WARNINGS: slight daddy kink, slight choking, sex toys, pet names, bondage, overstimulation, edging, creampie, degradation, unprotected sex, kinky shit idk lol

"You're such a naughty slut." He grabs my throat and pulls me closer until our faces are inches apart. "Tell me how you want me to fuck you, whore." I want him to use me however he wants. I open my mouth and let out a muffled moan, looking up at him through lowered lashes, biting my lip, waiting for his order.

"No words?" His hand tightens on my neck and pushes down harder against the mattress until I'm choking. "I thought you were smarter than that.

Are you going to make me prove it? "

My eyes widen, and I shake my head. Fuck, this man. "No, James," I wheeze. "Please, Jamie. Just use me however you want."

"You're lucky I let you call me that, I might have to punish you for being so desperate though." The look in James' eyes was lethal, dangerous, and it put me on edge.

James reached across the mattress grabbing his discarded shirt. He quickly paired my wrists, tying them tightly together, not caring if it was comfortable or not.

He hooked the knot around the bedpost, leaving me unable to defend myself, waiting for him to do with me what he pleased.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine, "I'm going to give you two choices. You can tell me exactly how you want me to use you. Or I will take you anyway I please, and you will be grateful for it."

"P-please, Sir. Whatever you want," I stutter out, as tears prickle the backs of my eyes. This was why I needed someone like this; someone who would be rough with me but would love me at the same time.

James' eyes flared with power, just at the thought of having full reign over my body.

"Where's your vibrator?" He asked with a grin, sitting up off the bed to rifle through the bedside table. "No, James not the v-" I couldn't finish my sentence before James had found my toy. "Ah, ah, ah, you said I could do whatever."

He chuckled, turning the device on, causing it to buzz loudly in his hands. "Besides, this should be punishment enough." I didn't say anything. I knew better than to argue with him now.

James leaned his mouth to my ear, whispering as he trailed the buzzing vibrator down the inside of my thighs.

"Such a dirty girl, taking whatever I give you." He pressed the toy to my clit my whole body jerking from the pleasure. I let out a whine, but this didn't stop James from talking me through it. "Can't wait to feel your tight fuckin hole around my dick..."

My heart raced from the forcfull vibrations directly on my clit. "Can't wait to hear those pretty sounds you make when I'm balls deep inside you..."

I began bucking against the bed, trying to get away from the vibrator, but James held me in place.

"Can't wait to hear you beg me to let you cum..." I moaned into the sheets, "Please, James. Please, please." But he persisted. "Can't wait to fill you with my cum..."

He growled. "You are such a filthy little slut, aren't you, Angel?" I nodded frantically. He was right; I was a filthy little slut, but only for him.

I squirmed agaisnt the pressure of the toy, trying to escape the overstimulation, but James held my hips in place, pressing harder.

I glanced down as he did this, staring at his cock.

He looked painfully hard, reddened and throbbing as precum dripped from the tip and onto the mattress.

Suddenly, James turned the vibrator off, pulling away with a sly smile.

I gasped, lifting my hips, begging for it again. It was like he was taunting me, leaving it off, knowing how much I wanted more. "Shh, shhhh. Good girl."

He ran his hand over my stomach, trying to soothe me. "But first, I want to watch you cum on my cock. And then you can have your toy back." My eyes widened at this, and I started to struggle.

"Just hold still, babygirl..." He hummed, rubbing my thighs and taking his cock in his hands.

I watched with a watering mouth as he pleased himself, just staring at my helpless body.

James slapped my sensitive pussy with his cock, teasing me as he rubbed himself through my soaking folds.

He grabbed my hip with one hand, guiding himself into me with a roar. He filled me completely in one single hard thrust.

My back arched as I screamed in pure ecstasy. I wrapped my legs around his waist, begging him to move faster. I felt so small, so insignificant beneath him, but it was the most powerful feeling ever.

James threw his head back, not working up his speed or anything, just immediately going as quick as he could. "Let's make this fun, shall we?" He grinned, reaching for the vibrator again.

"No, no, no!" I cried out, trying to push it away. "Aw, come on, sweetheart," he chuckled. Despite my begging, I wouldn't dare say our safe word, I wanted every second of it.

I watched with watery eyes as he turned the vibrator back on, pressing it back on my clit, all while his cock was fucking into me.

"Oh, fuck! Fuck!" I shouted, arching off the bed.

"Fuck, Jamie! Fuck!" I was losing control, losing everything. Everything became a blur as James went faster and harder.

"Come for me, Angel. Come for Daddy," he demanded, and I couldn't help but obey. I felt myself lose control, my muscles clenching around his cock, as I came undone in his arms.

All sound disappeared, everything except the beating of my own heart and the sound of me screaming his name.

His cock coated with my slick, but he didn't stop, and he didn't lift the vibrator either. "You're gonna have to wait until I cum, honey," he growled, rubbing the toy on me now.

I let out sobs of pleasure as he continued to use me. "Fuck, I love the way your pretty little pussy grips me.." He groaned.

"James it's too much!" I moaned, writhing in the restraints.

"That's the idea, babygirl. I want you to keep cumming, keep squeezing me." My vision started to black, as Ilost all sense of time, but I knew it was coming, I could feel it.

"I'm close, baby. I'm so close," he breathed in my ear, his voice low and guttural. I could tell by the change in tone he was about to cum. I was trapped between euphoria and agony, pleasure and pain.

I felt another orgasm tear through my core, every sensitive part of me was spasming. My clenching only pulled James closer.

I felt his release flood me, hot and thick.

It was messy, animalistic, and perfect.

James rutted agaisnt me as he groaned, glancing up at my teary eyes and cheeks. My whole body was trembling. This seemed to flip that switch in him, instantly going into protective mode.

He shut off the vibrator, tossing it aside as he hastily undid the knot around my reddened wrists.

"Are you okay honey? Was I too hard?" He cooed, pulling me into his arms.

I exhaled, trying to collect myself, I was hot, a sweaty mess as I collapsed at his side in bed.

"Baby? Are you alright?" He asked sofity, brushing my hair out of my exhausted face.

"Yes, yes. I'm okay." I panted, smiling up at him.

"Do you wanna take a bath? Or just go to bed? I can clean you off," James smiled.

"I don't think I can walk, so maybe no bath..." I laughed quietly, my voice raspy from the constant loud moans.

James nodded, planting a slow kiss on my forehead. "I'll get a towel."

162 notes · View notes

shadowphoenixrider · 7 months ago

Text

Skin Deep (2/2)

(Continuation to this. I hope you like dialogue because, erm, there's a lot of it here! Also forgive me for my first attempt are writing...most of the X-Men here! I'm doing my best! Medical descriptions continue, but with less blood this time.)

"So, Hank, tell us what you've discovered of our new friend's mutant powers." Professor Xavier said, gesturing for the doctor to speak.

"Shadow's power are utterly fascinating!" Beast replied excitedly, glancing briefly to the young woman sitting on the medical cot, before addressing the others that had gathered in equal curiosity; Wolverine and Rogue stood either side of the professor, whilst Gambit leaned up against the wall, shuffling his cards to keep his hands busy.

"She has the gift of cellular communication and manipulation; not to the extent of being able to shapeshift, but it seems she is able to perform manipulations on the micro-level to command cells to move, divide and perform all their specialised functions as they have evolved to do. Indeed, she is so in tune with them, she can process information from them as if they were her own; sometimes even more efficiently than normal."

"How so?" Xavier asked, steepling his fingers.

"Cells in our bodies communicate by the use of biochemical signalling." It was Shadow who spoke this time. "With the exception of nerve cells, which use the changes in their membrane potential - a form of electrical charge - to transmit electrical signals, usually by the use of voltage gated ion channels."

"Fucking hell, now there's two of them." Wolverine groaned, and Gambit had to suppress a smirk.

"I can control these signals myself, but I also seem to be able to...streamline them? I can make things happen much more quickly than what a human or mutant's body could do alone." Shadow nodded to Gambit. "A pneumothorax-"

"A pneumo-what?" Rogue frowned. "English please, sugah."

"Pneumothorax - 'air in chest'." Shadow explained. "It's when air becomes trapped in the pleural sac that wraps around the lungs to keep them lubricated, and avoid friction from rubbing against the ribs as they inflate and deflate. Usually those of the size I found in Gambit's require a drain, but I managed to eliminate it just by speeding the process of the reabsorption of air into the surrounding tissues."

"Not only that, but the wound you repaired." Beast gestured. "Gambit, if you'd be so kind to show the rest of us your right palm."

Gambit tugged his glove off, opening his hand up to the others as they leaned over.

"There's nothing there, sugah." Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Sure you're not jokin' with us?"

"Non, there definitely were something here, mon amie." Gambit said. "Made a mistake wit one of my cards durin' de scuffle, cut my hand open pretty bad. Couldn't move my fingers dat well after. Like they be caught on something."

"It was a deep laceration with an injury to a palmar digital vein and a seventy-five percent division of the extensor tendons." Shadow added. "A repair that would have certainly required surgery and several months of hand therapy to heal properly."

Wolverine uttered a low whistle. Gambit found himself flexing his fingers. No wonder she was so intent on healing me. That fils de putain nearly disabled me for months!

"And yet there's not a mark to be seen." Xavier commented, rubbing his chin. "How does it feel, Gambit?"

"Like before it were hurt." He replied, spinning a card expertly through his fingers to demonstrate. "Wouldn't have believed it myself if Gambit didn't see it happen wit his own eyes." He looked to Shadow, offering her a smile. She returned it with a shy one of her own, ducking her head.

"I've told you how the scene looked when Wolverine and I got there, Professor." Heads turned to see Cyclops walking into the medbay. "Yet Gambit was completely fine. Shadow's power seems to be like Wolverine's healing on tap."

"Glad you could join us, Cyclops." Xavier smiled. Gambit noticed movement out of the corner of his eye; Shadow had tilted her head in the very same motion she had when they'd first met. "Yes, I remember your description of the scene. It is very fortunate Gambit crossed paths with someone with such gifts."

"Petite?" The Cajun asked, shifting attention once again. Shadow's blue eyes flicked back and forth a moment, thinking.

"You've got a cut, Cyclops," she said. "I think it's...your left hand?"

Everyone's gaze swung back to said mutant, who looked taken aback.

"I...I do. I got a papercut a couple of minutes ago. How did you-"

"Ya hearin' something," Gambit's eyes fixed on Shadow, realization dawning, "aren't you?"

She blushed, looking away and scratching at the back of her neck.

"Yeah." Her gaze returned, although now she was looking at her feet dangling off the edge of the cot, her hand playing with her hair. "It's...a part of my power. When hurt or damaged, cells release a chemical signal to call for assistance. For some reason, I can hear it. The stronger the sound, the more the person is hurt."

"Extraordinary!" Beast breathed.

"Lotta people hurt in lotta differn' ways. Bein' able to hear all that, all the time? That sounds a pretty noisy life, sugah." Rogue said gently.

"Yes and no." Shadow admitted. "It seems to be just for recent traumatic injuries than anything chronic like cancer. But..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "You're right. I've had to learn to tune it out sometimes. Especially in crowded places, but also..." Her fingers curled into her hoodie. "People get weird sometimes when you offer to help. You know?"

No-one had to say anything, or even nod to understand. Even the mutants who could pass knew the tightrope you had to walk, not to hint or suggest you were something else, an 'other'. Regardless of the comfort in your own skin, the danger remained in the back of your head.

"I am sorry your gifts have brought you sorrow." Xavier spoke kindly.

"Thank you, but I'm one of the lucky ones." Shadow replied, smiling sadly. "It's easy enough to hide, and it doesn't give me too many problems."

"Now hold on a second." Wolverine spoke up. "If it's easy to hide, why'd you get attacked in the first place?"

"The sound I hear when someone's in pain is like tinnitus - a ringing tone." Shadow explained. "But I heard a completely different noise, like the signal was going in and out." She sighed, running a hand through her curly hair. "I got curious, followed it to the source, which was the guy with a gun welded to his arm." A wry smile. "I asked if he was doing ok, and he took offence. You know the rest."

"The cybernetics were extremely crude." Beast mused, scratching his chin. "You were likely hearing his body under stress, reacting to the foreign matter forcibly bonded to it."

"Den you were in the wrong place at the wrong time." Gambit shook his head, twirling a card over his fingers. "Lucky I were dere, petite."

"Yes." Cyclops folded his arms. "Though it sounds like he would have attacked anyone, mutant or otherwise. He just got 'lucky'."

"That's not exactly comforting, Slim." Was Wolverine's gruff response.

"At least this escalation appears restricted to a single person." Xavier spoke calmly. "A dangerous extremist that we managed to stop before he could cause any damage."

"Gambit beg to differ." The Cajun grumbled.

"What've you gotta worry 'bout?" Rogue grinned at him, thumping him on the shoulder almost hard enough to knock him to the side. "She fixed you right up!"

"Dat don't mean it didn't hurt de whole time!" He retorted, shooting her a look. She just replied with a raised eyebrow, amused. "'Sides, dat fight be harder den Gambit expecting." He frowned, looking back to the professor. "If dey start figurin' out how to wire dose blasters up, we're gon' be in a lotta trouble."

"Indeed." Xavier nodded. "However, we are getting off subject." He turned back to Shadow and Beast. "You clearly have some control over your powers, but I am curious of the limits of your potential. I presume you've never used them in anger?"

"No." Shadow shook her head. Gambit raised an eyebrow, watching her carefully.

Lying...? He wondered.

"I can't manipulate cells beyond one or two in a pteri dish without having direct skin-to-skin contact with them, and it takes a while to establish the connection with another's body." Shadow continued. "And that's not easy to do when they are other things going on - people throwing hands at you tends to disrupt your concentration."

The Cajun's dark gaze flicked to Xavier, wondering if he sensed the same thing he had. The Professor may have the clarity of a telepath, but Gambit had read more than enough people to sense something was off. His gut told him there was something she wasn't telling them. But what, he had no idea.

"I get the impression that our friend has learned to control her mutation, yet little more." Beast suggested. "Do you practice your powers at all, Shadow?"

"On myself, yeah. I use them when no-one's looking, to heal bumps and scrapes." She folded her arms. "Hard to practice on others though, without revealing myself."

"I can imagine it's not an easy thing to ask someone." Cyclops said. Gambit traced the edge of the card he was holding, recalling the strange feeling of someone under his skin.

"No. Nor easy to explain." Shadow sighed, her hands fidgeting with her sleeves. "I was lucky I had an understanding partner for a while, who let me practice on him."

Gambit saw Rogue cross her arms from the corner of his eye, sadness flashing across her face for a moment.

"What happened to him?" She asked softly. Shadow's shoulders slumped.

"Things fell apart. He loved me for who I was...but he wanted that part of me to stay a neat party trick, something to put on the shelf that only the two of us could use as an asset." She scowled. "There were other problems, that of two high school sweethearts growing up and away from one another, but it was my powers that broke us in the end. Because they can be safely ignored, he wanted me to just put them aside and concentrate on marrying, settling down and having babies together. As if my powers aren't a part of me like my eyes or lungs or hair!"

Her lips curled into a furious snarl, eyes flashing with boiling resentment.

"I have a power that doctors could only dream of having, something that could help, and instead he just...wanted me to forget about it, pretend to be normal!" The anger soon broke however, and a thickness entered her voice. "I'll never be normal. And after everything we'd both been through, I thought he'd understand that better than anyone."

Shadow chuckled bitterly.

"Not that it really matters now, though. Even if they'd let me practice as a mutant, I never could pass the tests needed to qualify as a proper clinician." She glanced up at Beast, who offered her a sympathetic smile. "Had to go for a lab tech job instead. I figured maybe my ability could still help with diagnostics if I was careful and could back my reports up with evidence. Tilt the needle more in the patient's favour, you know?"

"I sense a 'but' coming." Cyclops said what Gambit was thinking. Shadow blew a sigh out of her nose.

"Everything was fine for a while. Then, I'm three days into my annual leave and I get a call saying they're tacking three months of administrative leave onto the end of it." She ran a hand through her hair. "One of the techs got his thumb up his ass about me 'potentially' being a mutant. Overheard me talking to myself and thought it was good grounds to start shit."

"I presume this had nothing to do with your ability, since you can communicate with cells silently." Beast spoke, a claw tapping his chin in thought.

"No, nothing to do with my power. Sometimes I just talk to myself to help me think through a problem. Or just inanimate objects in general. It's just a thing I've always done since I was a child, nothing to do with being a mutant." She lifted a shoulder. "Maybe something I said in my ramblings could have been suspicious? But at the same time, how do you prove that I'm actually speaking to something to communicate, over just plain eccentricity?"

"People like those see mutants in every corner." Wolverine grunted. "Woulda only been a matter of time."

"Yeah, I guess so." Shadow agreed, briefly pulling her lips into a thin line. "So, yeah. Signed off work 'cos of some asshole, and now I potentially have a hate group gunning for me too." She rested her elbows on her knees, her forehead on her knuckles. "Deep joy."

"You have my deepest sympathies, Miss Shadow." Beast spoke, resting a massive hand delicately onto her shoulder. "But, if we may return to the subject of your current power and limitations?" She looked back up, nodding. "Thank you. I have reason to believe that whilst you have a good grasp on your powers right now, their greater depths are as of yet untapped. You should be able to refine them in multiple ways; offensively, defensively and as a general utility, both for yourself and others."

"I figured as much myself." Shadow said. "I've been able to exceed my body's normal limits temporarily by some subtle manipulations, but it's difficult to maintain due to the damage it causes. Such as lifting the control limts on my muscles - I could use them to their full potential to lift a car, but it requires focus first to lift the limits and keep them off, and then to endure and heal the damage suffered from such an act."

"That could improve with time and training." Beast replied. "As you well know, you wouldn't be able to heal as you do without practice, or be able to tune the sounds of hurt from others out."

"I am curious as to your current limitations of your healing." Xavier spoke, and Gambit felt the telepath's gaze on him. "You said you can only use it with skin-to-skin contact?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "I need it to be able to commune with another person's cells and form the connection into their body. It's like I have to move my consciousness into the person, and that's what takes the time. Of course, if the injury is in just one area, like the arm, it's quicker for me to connect with that area than it is to fully 'move' into another's body."

Gambit paused his card shuffling, interest piqued fully.

"Interesting. From what Gambit told me of what happens, it seems as if your body enters a trance - still alive and functioning, but your mind elsewhere."

"Yeah. I kinda...'lose' connection with my own body temporarily, especially if I fully 'move' into another's. But it's more a case that I don't notice what my body's feeling - not that I've actually moved inside the person."

"So if your body was to be hurt or the connection broken..." Beast mused.

"I'd be ripped back into myself." Shadow said, winding one of the drawstrings of her hoodie around her finger. "Had it happen a couple of times by accident, and it's always unpleasant. It takes me a couple of seconds to adapt to a person's body when I enter and then readapt to my own when I return - you can imagine that a jarring re-entry doesn't exactly make me feel very good."

"No, it doesn't." Xavier agreed. Gambit lifted an eyebrow. Getting forced out of someone's head must feel the same way for the Professor and Jean.

"What's it like, bein' under someone's skin?" It was Rogue who spoke this time.

"Loud." Shadow chuckled. "Bodies are a riot of noise, both from cells talking to one another to just the general sounds like the heart beating, breathing, all that." Her eyes became far away, flicking back and forth in thought. "It...is hard to explain. It's like I become someone else, but I'm not them. I'm...I'm like a house guest. I can listen to their music, move their furniture around and stuff like that, but it's not my house."

"Sounds 'bout right." Gambit chimed in. "Feels like dere someone under your skin wit you."

"Brrr," Rogue shivered. "Don't like the sound of that, sugah."

"Yeah, it a weird feelin' at first. But after a while you get used to it. It don't hurt, it just...uncomfortable. Least to begin with."

"That's pretty much how my ex described it." Shadow nodded. "Uncomfortable and weird, but not painful. I can understand why people wouldn't enjoy the experience, nor the thought of having someone with near free reign over the most precious thing to them."

"Near free reign?" Xavier asked, his brows furrowing. "You don't have full control?"

"No." Shadow shook her head. "Like I said, I'm a guest. I've not yet been forcibly evicted by someone on purpose, but they still have full control of their body whilst I'm inside them. Anything I do, the person could fight back against me."

"Did dat when Gambit felt his fingers move without him." The Cajun added. "Her grip strong, but not complete."

"With enough strength and contrary directions, a person can overpower me." Shadow said. "I mean, all it would take is for someone to sock me in the jaw and I'm flung straight out." She turned her head slightly, looking thoughtful. "I also...have rules."

"Rules?" Gambit's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Technically I have control over every cell in the body. That includes brain cells." A sudden tension tightened the air. "I don't think you need me to tell you what that means, even over the fact I can already technically puppeteer a person if I wanted to." Shadow slowly raised her gaze to the others, meeting their eyes and holding them firmly.

"I don't know what I can do in that regard, I don't want to know, and I never will know." She spoke firmly, with conviction. "It is my one unwritten master rule I follow above all others - I will never touch or interfere with another's cognition or will or anything to do with the brain. Partially because it is wrong, and partially because I'm shit scared about how badly I could fuck someone up if I make a mistake. Help someone suffering a stroke, sure - that's just a blood vessels, I know how they work. But I will never, never touch the brain tissue itself."

Gambit considered her, impressed both with the heated force behind her words, and the fact she'd shown her hand in this way. It would have been easy to lie by omission, and yet here she was, highlighting how much trust he'd laid into her hands. He'd essentially given himself to her like a patient gave themselves to a surgeon, and like that surgeon, she'd repaid his trust only by taking care of him. No more, no less.

"An admirable code to live by." Beast said softly. "Your own Hippocratic Oath."

"I try to follow that too." Shadow said. "'Do no harm'."

The doctor gave her a wry smile.

"The Hippocratic Oath is a little more lengthy than that, but the colloquial version will be more than enough for your needs, I think."

"Words don't give me much comfort, sweetheart." Wolverine growled. "We just have to trust that you won't mess with our heads?"

"You wouldn't need Shadow's help anyway." Gambit countered. "You heal jus' fine on ya own."

"That may be Cajun, but what about the others who need her help? What about you?"

"She looked after me well enough."

"You don't have to trust me." Shadow retorted, pulling herself up to her full height. "Like I said, I wouldn't be able to heal you anyway if the contact wasn't fully consensual. Besides," she gestured broadly. "the fuck am I gonna do? I'm useless unless my hands are on someone's skin! I don't even know how to fight! I have nothing to gain except a grave."

"We are getting ahead of ourselves." Xavier spoke with steely firmness, fixing Wolverine with a glare. "You are assuming that Shadow will even stay with us."

Wolverine grunted, folding his arms but offering no further objection.

"But Professor, that is your preference, isn't it?" Cyclops piped up. "For Shadow to stay whilst we investigate the Friends of Humanity member that attacked her?"

"It is my recommendation, yes." Xavier agreed, turning to the young woman. "If you stay, you can train and refine your powers, and perhaps learn some techniques to help keep yourself safe when you leave us in the future. This will not be a permanent placement, unless you wish it to be." His ice blue eyes shot another glare at Wolverine. "Regardless of current opinion."

"Still don't like it." Said mutant grumbled.

"Why is her powers differen' to what the Professor an' Jean can do?" Rogue asked, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow. "They could do much worse, but we're fine with them! Ah, no offence, Professor."

"None taken, Rogue."

Wolverine growled in frustration, scowling.

"Fine. But if she stays, I'm keeping an eye on her."

"That's fair." Shadow nodded. "So long as you'll at least grant me that chance for a scrap with you if I do screw up, and you don't just off me whilst I'm sleeping."

"Thought you said you couldn't fight?"

"I can't." She smiled, holding her hands out. "I just prefer to be stabbed in the front, not the back."

Despite himself, a smile tugged on the corner of Wolverine's mouth, and also on Gambit's.

"Does that mean you've made a decision, Shadow?" Xavier asked.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I'll stay for a little while. Least 'til the heat dies down from those guys, and my job lets me back in."

"A fair agreement." Xavier smiled slightly. "There are some spare dorms for you to stay in, and we can help make arrangements to move some of your personal belongings here, if you wish."

"I'll go and sort that, Professor." Cyclops spoke, taking his leave.

"I'll let the others know we got a new guest." Rogue added, offering a smile to Shadow. "Welcome to the family, sugah."

"Now, to more prudent matters," Xavier began, "whilst you are our guest here, you will be expected to pick up your side of the tasks here, as well as train. This is a school, not a hotel."

"Wasn't expecting a free hand-out." Shadow replied, looking to Beast. "I'm happy to help as best I can, and I'll try to keep out from under your feet otherwise."

"I am certainly grateful for another pair of hands." The doctor grinned at her.

"Good." Xavier said, becoming thoughtful. "Did you say you were expecting to be on leave for three months?"

"Round about, yeah. I have one week of annual leave, then the admin leave starts." Shadow snorted. "Least I should be grateful they let me keep the holiday..."

"Alright. Then we will make the necessary arrangements to accommodate you." Xavier turned. "Please come with me, Shadow. We'll sort out the details in my office."

The young woman nodded, hopping off the medical cot to follow closely behind. Gambit watched her go, sharing a quick smile with her before his gaze became a little more intent than he expected; whilst Shadow's hoodie was baggy and hid much of her form, her jeans absolutely did not. He found his gaze wandering down her back to her hips and legs, lingering to watch her thighs flex under the denim-

Wolverine elbowed him in the ribs.

"Put your tongue back in your mouth, Cajun." He grunted, a smirk playing on his gruff features. "She's not on the menu."

"Gambit can appreciate fine art without havin' to touch it, mon ami." He retorted, glaring. "'Sides, thought ya didn't like her."

"Hmph. Maybe she's not a threat. But still gonna keep an eye on her, just in case." Gambit folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look. You shouldn't be getting ideas either way; she'll be gone after those three months, anyway."

It turned out that Shadow would stay for much, much longer than that...

#sprs writing #x men #multipart fic #dialogue heavy #exposition dump #self insert #gambit #charles xavier #professor x #wolverine #logan howlett #remy lebeau #x men rogue #anna marie darkholme #x men cyclops #scott summers #x men beast #hank mccoy #x men oc: shadow

22 notes · View notes