#OC_shadow

[shads-shipposts]

Anachronism Placeholder Cover+Act I Titles

BEHOLD THE COVER!

Or, at least a placeholder lol. Decided to place emphasis on the car because I find the "truck-kun" trope hilarious. It's not now Shadow ends up in the Tintin movie, but it IS how she ends up on the ship.

I also finally got all the titles done for chapters 1-20 ✨

What a Way To Start the Day

All Around Me Are Familiar faces

Dreamers' Dare

Run and Gun

Friends and Folly

Quest of Questions

Curiosity Killed the Cat

Cat and... Dog?

Press K to Change Teams

Lore Drops and Rabies

A Deep Cut

No More Evading the Confrontation

Existential Crisis Encore

Bumpy Ride

Spawning Season

Pedal to the Metal

Special Delivery

NOW We're Getting Somewhere

Grand Reveals

Drown It Out

Get hype for next week!

[shadowthestoryteller]

Shadow @ Wrecker

[shadowthestoryteller]

I SHALL FOREVER TREASURE

A piece of @shadowthestoryteller ‘s oc and Sniper hanging out!!

As much as I struggle drawing sniper, this was definitely worth it, I hope you like it!!

[shads-sketchies]

Someone order a low quality visualization of this chapter of Commander, Meet the Cat?

-Sept 9, '22

[shadowscrackcomicemporium]

I keep forgetting to post crack comics here so they shall be on this account only from now on

[twitchstoleyourbagel]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHAAADDOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!! @shadows-fan-space I LOVE YAAAAA

[shadow-stalker99]

Shadow: This is exactly what happened

Wrecking-Ball-99: That’s the Sarge!

[shads-shipposts]

Well

What was 10 chapters for "act one" of Anachronism is now 20

Y'all getting FED next year for Karaboudjan content

Come hungry for banter and angst because boy howdy will there be a LOT

[shads-shipposts]

Shadow: Who the fuck-?

Tom: Language!

Shadow: … Whom the fuck?

Tom: No!

[shads-shipposts]

Allan: Any questions?

Shadow: Yeah. Why are you British?

Allan: ...

Allan: What?

Shadow: I mean the original comics were supposed to be from Belgium. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that place has a French flavor. The original comics were also in French. Why is nearly every damn person on this rust-bucket aggressively British?

Allan, two seconds away from the third existential crisis that night: I meant about the plan, Shadow, what the hell?

[shads-shipposts]

Shadow: *having a minor emotional breakdown over their lack of survival skills given they let the Karaboudjan crew hit them with a truck and put them on the ship via crate because they thought they were dreaming and damage was therefore turned off*

Neil, trying to enjoy his breakfast but also wanting to help Shadow feel better:

[shads-shipposts]

Can I offer a protective Allan in these trying times?

CW: Being a burden/annoying

WC: 505

——————————————

Sakharine scoffed. “That idiotic and obstinate mindset of yours will land you at the bottom of the sea.” His tone turned sweet, persuasive. “Come now, be sensible! A man like Allan does not have the patience to have a child following him around asking questions. He has no time for such annoying burdens.”

Allan expected another sharp remark. Maybe even physical violence, as Shadow had shown an affinity for both. But Shadow’s response was far more sickening and left a hollow ache deep in Allan’s chest.

Shadow flinched.

Allan exchanged a glance with Tom, who stared back with a mix of pain and anger.

Guess I know one of her weaknesses now.

Allan felt no triumph in the revelation, just a sinking feeling in the pit in his stomach. He despised empty victories, and this was certainly one of those.

“Enough,” he growled.

He tried pulling Shadow back into him, hoping to offer some comfort. Some reassurance that that wasn’t how he viewed her at all.

But Shadow jerked out of his grip, heading for the door and shoving Tom out of the way as the man tried to comfort her. The door slammed behind her, Tom wincing at the sound.

“Tom,” Allan ordered. “Keep an eye on her.”

Tom nodded and quickly left the room, yelling Shadow’s name.

Allan turned to Sakharine, itching to drive his fist through the man’s skull or maybe put a bullet through it. “What the fuck was that about?” he spat.

Sakharine threw him a scornful look. “Mind you tongue-“

“Mind your own,” Allan interrupted. “Shadow is not a burden to me, or anyone else on this crew!” His voice rose, white-hot anger burning just beneath his skin. “You have no right to treat her like that because you’re pissy that she doesn’t trip over herself trying to appease you!”

“Look at that, the mutineer has a soft spot,” Sakharine sneered. He prodded Allan with his cane, the blade still sheathed but the threat still very much present. “Mind how you speak. That girl may know the events, but she doesn’t know the location of the treasure. Any loyalty to her or faith in her is misguided and ill-placed.”

Allan stepped forward, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction as fear flickered in Sakharine’s eyes and the older man staggered back. “Don’t think for a second I won’t kill you,” he warned, voice now deadly soft. “Don’t think for a second your money or status makes you invulnerable. I could give the word and my crew would tear apart without hesitation.” His next words scarcely rose above a whisper. “While you’re still alive.”

“Get… get away from me,” Sakharine choked out, the crack in his voice destroying any visage of bravery.

“You may control the money, and the law, but you do not control me.” Allan straightened and turned away. “You would do well to remember that, boss.” Spitting the last word like poison, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door so hard the window shattered.

[shads-shipposts]

Anachronism Ch 1

We did it chat

We surpassed the "Fandom is six people and a shoelace" meme. We are now seven people and a shoelace!

This calls for celebration.

In the form of another full chapter of my fic Anachronism! Unproofread of course, because this page is still the furthest thing from polished and I am to keep it chaotic.

The prologue is here!

CW: Language

Wordcount: 3086

------------------------------------------

It’s all fun and games until it happens to you.

Oh, sure, we’ve all laughed at someone else’s misfortune. I’ve done it, even at the most inopportune of moments. Like a kid tripping and eating asphalt.

Or when a character gets sucked into fanfiction and must survive the HorrorsTM.

I’d read my fair share of those fics in my fair share of fandoms. Star Wars, Assassin’s Creed Three and Four, and Tintin seemed to be the main ones.

Speaking of Tintin…

Maybe it was an odd sort of gift, granted by the universe with her oh so funny sense of humor. College had my stories stuck in a rut, so this could be the big breakthrough to jumpstart my creativity once more. Or this could be karma for never finishing my own universe-yeet Tintin fanfiction.

The Day Karma Bit Back.

I figured my habit of never finishing fics all the way through would eventually bite me in the ass.

I just didn’t imagine it’d be in the form of me waking up in a 1950s style apartment in the Tintin movie, something immediately apparent by the realistic yet stylized environment.

Slowly sitting up in confusion, I peered around at the room.

That only left me more confused when I saw my phone charging on the nightstand, and my laptop charging on a dresser.

Not the weirdest dream I’d ever had, because hellfire I’d had some off the wall ones that no amount of backtracking through my day could explain.

Useful for wilder story concepts, though.

Maybe college had finally pushed me to the breaking point. When I say I contemplated dropping out last Fall… damn those fruit flies and their entire lab-grown lineage to hell.

“Mornin’!”

I yelped and flipped out of the bed as a voice sounded right by my ear. Jumping into a right fighting stance, guard up, I found myself staring at a familiar face.

Not a sailor, or a reporter, or even a Tintin character at all.

Instead, I was looking at one of my characters.

Tan skin, shoulder length black hair that fluffed in every direction, mischievous green eyes, and a body built like a brick shithouse.

“T-… Trevor!?” I sputtered, blinking rapidly as if he were merely an illusion and a few resets would make him disappear.

How was he here? Yeah, sure, he originally started showing up in a Tintin fic snippet I had from like 2017 or 2018, so him in Tintin wasn’t too outlandish… but why was he in my room?

He flopped on my bed, rolling onto his back and grinning up at me.

Hell, those teeth are sharp.

“The creator recognizes me!” He flipped back onto his stomach, pointing a finger gun at me. “Ya know, still waitin’ on you to draw me.”

“Wait-”

“I mean, come on!” Trevor sat up and gestured to himself. “You only just recently settled on a design! I’ve just be a vague consciousness that plagues your story with no set corporeal form, do you know how hard it is to flirt with people like that?”

I shook my head, waving my hands in a weak attempt to get him to stop talking so I could get a word in. “Hold it! What kind of whack-ass dream am I havin’ that you’re in?” I exclaimed. “You’ve never shown up in my dreams!”

Yeah, college really has driven me past the brink of insanity. I’m really out here arguing with a figment of my imagination asking why he showed up.

Ain’t the weirdest dream we’ve had.

True that, but still!

Trevor’s grin, somehow, got wider. “Dream? My dearest creator, this isn’t a dream!” He frowned, scratching behind his ear like a dog. “Though, suppose it is in a way. Dream come true for your hyperfixated self, gettin’ to roam the Tintin movie from 2011! Ya know, the reason you’re writin’?”

I grimaced. “Ugh, please don’t remind me of that old role-play nightmare.”

“Hey, it was a start!”

“A cringey start at that,” I muttered, then shook my head violently to erase it from my brain like an Etch-A-Sketch. “Hey, stop changin’ the subject!”

“What subject?” Trevor asked, an innocent smile on his face.

“The subject of what the hell you’re doing here, in my dream. I know you’re self aware, you little shit.”

“That I am! Well, since you’re so persistent.” Somehow managing a backflip off the bed, he then raised his arms above his head like a successful gymnast.

“Try hard,” I snorted.

“Ah, but who designed me so?”

“Yourself,” I shot back. “I never even created your dramatic ass, you just started showin’ up. Like the personification of the plot or somethin’.”

“Ah, but you can’t say I ain’t useful!”

“Broken clock is right twice a day.”

“I could boot you back to the ‘waking’.” He used air quotes around the word. “World if you’d prefer!” His teeth flashed in a devious grin. “I’m sure the Spring semester would love to welcome you in.”

Nausea rose up my throat and I felt the beginnings of a tension migraine behind my eyes.

“Ugh hard pass.”

“So stay awhile!” Trevor suggested, spreading his arms wide. “Besides, what do you have to lose?” He winked at me. “Like you said, it’s just a dream.”

Boy, I do not like the way you said that.

But, he had a point. Or, I guess my subconscious did. This wouldn’t be the first time I lucid dreamed, or was self aware in a dream. And what else could it be other than a dream?

People didn’t jump between universes. That just wasn’t a thing.

A dream.

That was it.

Just… just a dream.

Given that it was just a dream, wouldn’t hurt to go rambling. It was odd the scene hadn’t shifted yet, since my dreams were usually pretty chaotic, but maybe this was the time for a scene shift.

May as well make the best of it before I wake up on Winter Break again. Happy New Year to me.

��Alright, fine,” I groaned. “I’ll bite.”

“You sure do!” Trevor looked at his watch-less wrist. “Welp, gotta get goin’! Things to do, places to be.”

Really?!

What cosmic entity did I piss off to earn this nightmare?

“Hold it!” I barked, following him as he started for the door. “Can’t I get at least a little explanation?”

“Nope!” Trevor turned to face me, grinning ear to ear. “This is not a well-thought-out and carefully crafted type of fanfic, no no! This is a wild ride of a fic where we just take the cards we’re dealt, and we run with them!” He shrugged. “All there is to it!”

“But-“

“Besides! Explaining things only slows the chaos down, after all no one has time nor patience for exposition dumps. That’s not why they’re here! They’re here for nonsense to fuel their escapism and yearning for found-family that would kill for them!”

“Who the fuck is they?” I exclaimed, gesturing at the empty apartment. “We’re alone.”

“Are we?”

“Hey, don’t pull a Polar Express train hobo,” I said, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Can’t I get a little info?”

“It’s a dream, right? They don’t do info dumped they go straight into the crack!” He held his hand up. “But if you insist.”

The moment he snapped his fingers a wave of images and information slammed into my brain and knocked me off my feet.

Dark alleyways, crowded marketplaces, peaceful courtyards, musty attics, cluttered apartments.

Quick glimpses really, like the faded, hazy memories of dreams. Enough of a visage to distinguish where I was, to feel a sense of familiarity, but not really anything more.

Blurry snapshot rather than a true picture.

Sounds muted and unclear, like hearing things from underwater. Just past the point of deciphering. Voices, lots of those. Gunshots? Yes, those too.

One particular scene came into focus.

The library, its aisles dark and shelves overturned. Books everywhere, some intact some not. Adrenaline pulsing through my veins, something heavy scalding my hand.

A pistol, recently and frequently fired.

Echoes of gunfire, accompanied by yelling. Angry, threatening yelling, the roughness and pitch unmistakably masculine.

Yet there was another above the din, a lighter tone that had yet to really mature into the lower base of a grown adult.

A glance to the side revealed a familiar freckled face and ginger quiff, its owner hunkered down behind an overturned table with me. A flash of white fur near his leg, adding his barks to the cacophony.

Was Tintin shorter than me? No, yes… maybe?

It was always so hard to tell when crouched, as I was all leg and hardly any torso at all.

Height didn’t matter here, but numbers did.

And we were losing.

Tintin grabbed my hand, yanking me towards a fallen shelf as he fired over his shoulder and forced the attackers to take cover.

Were they the sailors? Another faction? Simple thugs?

I didn’t know, and would apparently never know as the scene vanished like a mirage on an old dirt road during a summer heatwave.

In its place came the headache of the century.

“Hellfire,” I groaned, gripping my head. “I know they say to avoid infodumps in stories, but this is a-whole-nother bitch. What the fuck, Trevor?”

I received no answer.

I slowly sat up, cursing as the room spun. “Trevor?”

No one, just me in the room.

One of the windows to the fire escape was open, however, and with great difficulty I got to my feet to see if he’d escaped that way.

You better be gone gone, ‘cause boy if I get my hands on you you’re donezo.

I staggered to the back window, leaning heavily on the windowsill as the low drone of a ship’s horn echoed off the alley walls. A quick scan of the lower street revealed no Trevor, and as I blinked away the spots from my vision I also saw no sign of him along the rooftops.

“Trickster bastard,” I grumbled, rubbing my temple.

Another low drone from a ship caught my attention, and I looked towards the source. Just over the tops of some of the building, I could see the crane arms moving back and forth.

Go.

You know you want to.

It’s a dream, right?

My eyes moved to the sketchpad on my nightstand.

What do you have to lose?

My phone chirped, which was quite odd given I’d had that sucker on silent since 2015. The screen brightened, and as I picked it up, I found myself looking at the lockscreen.

My persona Scarlett Bloodsmoke embracing two dear friends, Thatcher Morgan and Skipper Anders, on the enchanted shores of the dreamrealm.

My eyes drifted to the text alert banner, and my nose wrinkled in a scowl as I read Trevor’s name at the top.

The contents of his text only deepened my frown.

“May as well get reference sketches for the Caroline even though you sink her!”

Of all the character deaths I concocted, the wreck of the Caroline and all the men who went down with her was probably the one that hit me the hardest. It’d been two years since I drafted the scene, and two years since I’d last read it because it was so painful.

It was also the reason I had my phone thrown at me by two of my friends.

Thatcher and Skipper had perished in the wreck, something that would haunt both Scarlett and me.

And got me yelled at by my therapist, but it was honestly very deserved.

I looked again out towards the distant cranes as yet again a ship’s horn echoed off the brick walls like a siren’s call.

This was a dream. It had to be. So any pictures or sketches would remain in my consciousness only as I couldn’t pull them into the real world . But even so…

Dreams had given me very handy inspiration before.

At the very least, I could update the Caroline’s design.

She had her roots in the Karaboudjan anyways, just like Thatcher had his roots in Allan and Skipper had his in Tom.

“Alright,” I muttered, heading to the closet to find something comfy to wear. “Let’s get some inspiration.”

-Allan pov-

The hair caught Allan’s eye first. 

Dark bluish-purple in the shade, a more vibrant reddish-purple in the sun. 

The owner of the hair only piqued his interest more.

He, or she, looked so out of place it was almost hilarious. At least among the dockworkers. She had enough sense to stay out of the way, sticking close to a large wall where she was cloaked mostly in the long, mid-morning shadows cast by the warehouse. But she wasn’t even trying to blend in with the rest of the men, sitting cross legged atop a crate scribbling furiously in a sketchbook.

The odd sight wasn’t exactly concerning, but the fact she frequently looked at the Karaboudjan was. 

Surely she couldn’t be a reporter or journalist. 

Then again, that ginger nuisance Allan and his men ran across near Egypt also didn’t look like a journalist but had caused a world of hurt for Allan’s operations. Looks could be incredibly deceiving. 

But there was something else.

He couldn’t be sure from this distance, but the kid almost looked… familiar? 

Maybe…

No. 

Surely not.

His dream that morning was making him paranoid, that was all. It was embarrassing really, that a simple nightmare had him so rattled he saw Scarlett’s face everywhere now. 

Yet his eyes remained trained on her. 

He had to know. Had to know why the hell she was sketching the ship. 

It was because of her clear fascination and focus on the ship, nothing more. He just needed... needed to keep an eye out. The FBI and Interpol could have spies everywhere. 

It was purely business.

It wasn’t personal.

It wasn’t dire.

It wasn’t Scarlett. 

“Hey, Al, what are ya lookin’ at?” Tom asked, coming up beside him. 

Allan dipped his head towards the kid. “We got a watcher.” 

Another one of Allan’s men, an Australian named Neil, joined them. “Yeah, she’s been there since I started unloadin’.”

Allan glanced at him. “Talk to ‘er?”

Neil shook his head. “Didn’t see a need to. She’s outta the way, and is mindin’ ‘er business. Ain’t botherin’ anyone.” 

Allan turned his attention back to the kid. “Right.” 

“Should I have?” Neil asked. 

“Not sure yet,” Allan replied slowly. 

And he hated that he wasn’t. Uncertainty could put you at risk to be blindsided, and blindsides were a death sentence in Allan’s line of work. 

“Nice hair, though,” Neil commented with a small laugh. “Reminds me of my sister, she always liked dyein’ ‘er hair fancy colors.”

Tom tilted his head as he watched her scribble. “Purple, though? Bit anachronistic, don’t ya think?” 

Neil glanced at Tom and elbowed him with a sly grin. “Didn’t think you could manage big words like that, Tommy.” 

Tom glared at him, clearly fighting down a smile of his own. “Piss off,” he growled, shoving Neil.

“Stow it,” Allan snapped as the pair started going for headlocks and rib shots.

This was just too weird to ignore, too odd to brush off as mere coincidence. 

He had to figure out why exactly she was here, and who exactly she was. 

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked, smacking Neil’s hat off in one last blow.

Tom, you well-meaning but unobservant idiot.

“Look at ‘er face.”

Tom gave him an odd look, but peered across the docks. “Is there… somethin’ I’m lookin’ for?”

“She doesn’t remind you of Scarlett?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “Oh… shit, yeah. I see it now.”

Neil frowned. “Who?”

“Someone we ran across a few months ago. She was…” Allan struggled to find the words to describe her that wouldn’t make him look like a madman spouting about aliens. “Unique.”

“She kinda just vanished without a trace,” Tom added. “We’re still not exactly sure what all happened those few days she was ‘round ‘ere.”

“And you think the sketcher is her?”

Allan shook his head. “Not a chance. Scarlett had some… unmistakable traits.”

“Like what?”

“Not important right now.”

As far as you’re concerned, Neil.

Neil glanced at Tom, clearly hoping the man would shed some light on the First Mate’s statement. When Tom offered nothing, eyes focused on the young woman, Neil looked back at Allan.

“Am I… missin’ somethin’, boss?”

Should he offer a little more information? Neil had proven himself a reliable secretkeeper, and fairly unshakable no matter what Allan threw his way. Harry Hobbs also spoke highly of him, assuring Allan that Neil could be trusted with their… more secretive operation.

“There’s a good chance,” Allan began carefully. “Scarlett wasn’t… earthly.”

Neil blinked. “An alien.”

“She had a bloody tail.”

“A fluffy one,” Tom added. “Black and white striped. Furry feet and ears too.”

“Ah.” Neil looked at the sketcher. “That explains the fascination. Really think this kid has a connection?”

“Think I’ll go find out myself.”

Tom looked at him, somewhat alarmed. “What if she bolts?” He gestured to the both of them. “We’re not exactly the most friendly lookin’.”

“Good point,” Allan muttered, then turned to Neil. “Go try and talk to ‘er.”

Neil wasn’t exactly any less physically imposing than Allan or Tom, but him alone may not be as threatening.

“Keep ‘er distracted, but don’t engage. No threats, got it?”

No need to make a scene, not yet. Usually he wouldn’t care, after all if you acted like you had something to hide people got suspicious, but after his nightmare coincided with Tom’s, he was on edge for anything unusual.

Her face, even from this distance…

It was just so damn close to Scarlett. Blood relation close. 

Could Alphians shift into humans? He thought he recalled Scarlett mentioning that once, but he couldn’t be sure. 

Either way, he could not let this kid escape without seeing if she knew the Alphian. 

“Not… gonna do anythin’ to ‘er, right boss?” Neil asked, a new hardness to his tone. 

“No, she’s not in any danger.” Not yet. “I just have questions for ‘er.”

Neil still didn’t seem convinced. 

“Just go,” Allan ordered. 

As Neil left, Allan turned to Tom. “Alert the boys. Get ‘em to block the exits, but discreetly. Wait for my word, this could be nothin’.” 

Tom nodded and left to carry out the order. 

Allan turned back to watch the kid, eyes narrowed. 

Nothing personal. 

I need answers. 

And you’re not goin’ anywhere until I get them.

[shads-shipposts]

There was intensity and angst yesterday

Have a brief fluffier scene of the platonic variety that takes place some time prior to the escape but after Sakharine's manipulation.

I don't see Allan as outright hugging often, it's kinda his way of showing "I'm being legit in my concern here". Of course, both he and Shadow are incapable of going without wise-cracks unless they're really emotionally distressed so it bleeds into most of their interactions.

Also, I personally headcanon Al as aro-ace so his and Shadow's relationship is a strict parent-child/mentor-mentee with elements of siblings. Mainly the first though.

-----------------

“Sorry for… breakin’ down,” I mumbled.

“Of all the enemies,” Allan said. “The brain is the worst.”

I rubbed my arm, looking away. 

“Goin’ to make me use drastic measures, huh?” 

“What-?”

My voice died in my throat as two steady arms wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me into a tight embrace. Face pressed against his shirt, I remained frozen for quite some time before I tentatively relaxed into the hug. Arms curling around Allan, tension bled from my shoulders and a soft, shaky sigh escaped me.

“Feel better?”

“Kinda unnerved, to be honest,” I mumbled, but didn’t back away. 

Allan chuckled at that. “Good, 'cause I won’t do it often.” 

I stepped away, but found I now had the strength to face him. “Thank goodness for that, not sure I could take too many of those.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?” Grabbing my shoulder, he pulled me back into a much firmer hug. “Don’t like my hugs?”

I wiggled in his grip. “You ain’t huggy! It’s weird!” I protested, but a laugh slipped out. 

“Aw, you wound me! I’m a nice man, kid,” he teased. 

“I think I prefer your grouchy side!”

He shifted his grip, going for a partial headlock. “Who you callin’ grouchy?”

[shads-shipposts]

Pedal to the Medal snippet

I havent graced this page with some chaos for almost a month, so have a segment from the current Chapter 9 of Anachronism fic.

Enjoy some insanity from "Pedal to the Medal" in which Tom hits me with a car and fanfic physics cause me to fly into the side of a storeshed, which of course collapses on me

Ah, slapstick my beloved.

--------------------------------------

Flinging the door open, ignoring Tom’s scream, Allan raced over to the collapsed building. All he remembered was seeing the kid in the headlights before the truck suddenly lurched forward and sent the kid into the wall. Dust clouded the air, illuminated by the street lamps in the now eerily quiet night. 

They had to get the kid out of there! 

She was annoying, but Allan didn’t want her dead! 

“Shadow!” Tom yelled, coming to Allan’s side with pure panic written all over his face. 

Neil was soon by their side, pulling bricks out of the pile in a frantic attempt to reach Shadow. “Shortie? Shortie!” 

Allan nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand burst from the bottom of the pile near his foot. “Kid?!”

The hand waved up at him.

She was still alive under there?!

“Holy shit, are you ok?” Tom exclaimed, joining Allan’s side along with Neil and kneeling down by the bricks.

Miraculously, Shadow gave them a thumbs up.

“Quit standin’ there,” Allan snapped at him. “Get ‘er out!”

Allan meant for Tom to dig her out, not grab her hand and pull. Clawing the bricks off himself as Neil grabbed Shadow’s other hand, Allan then watched in a mix of shock and horror as Shadow flew out of the pile as if shot by a cannon.

Tom and Neil fell to the cobblestones, Shadow sailing over their heads and falling into a roll all the way to the next building. She slammed against the bricks, sending a small crack branching up towards the second floor window as she slumped upside down.

Allan reached Shadow first, heart hammering as he dropped to one knee and stared down at her. Rarely did he find himself unsure of what to do in a situation, but honestly how did you even prepare for a situation like this?!

Shadow blinked a few times then looked up at him. “Did everyone see that because I will not be doin’ it again.”

Ok, she was joking. Playing. Being funny. Deadpan funny, but still funny.

That was good, right? It meant she was, somehow, ok.

Right?!

Tom scrambled to her side, panic written all over his face. “Holy shit holy shit, are you ok? I’m so sorry!” he apologized, frantically trying to pull her into a sitting position.

Shadow, however, kept swatting his hands away. “Can we ask this later?” She carefully pushed him back with a foot against his shoulder. “That is gonna attract a lot more attention than a simple hit and yoink!”

Alright, she’s still thinking logically. Not delirious, not confused. Still sharp, still playful. I don’t know how the hell you are even breathing after that hit, but you’re clearly not human as we know it.

Alphian or not, this kid was tough.

“Kid’s right,” Allan barked, grabbing Shadow’s leg from where it still rested up against the brick wall and spinning her around into an upright position. “We need to get out of here and get out of here quickly!”

“To the Batmobile!” Shadow said as Allan wrapped an arm around her middle and hauled her to the car’s back door.

Still joking. Not slurring her words. I feel nothing wet so she’s not bleeding. She’s not yelping when I move her, so nothing’s broken. She’s not coughing up blood.

How are you still alive?

How are you still alive?

Neil and Harry jumped in quickly after her, Neil immediately trying to check her over as Tom dashed to the driver’s seat and sped off.

“She’s… fine? Not a scratch!” Neil sputtered. “The hell, Shortie, you had a building fall on you?!”

“I am well aware, what’s with all you?” Shadow exclaimed, trying to fend his worried hands off. “You’re supposed to be big badass drug smugglers, not momma hens!”

“Most people don’t survive a brick building cavin’ in on ‘em!” Harry yelled, eyeing Shadow with a mix of worry and terror.

“Well I’m just build different,” Shadow declared, smacking Neil’s hands down.

“I’m so sorry, Shadow!” Tom yelled.

“What the hell did you even do? I thought you were gonna brake before you actually hit her!” Neil yelled. 

“I was under a lot of pressure and got nervous!”

“So you pressed the gas instead?!”

“Hey! Don’t yell at Tom!” Shadow protested.

“He could have killed you!” Neil snapped, prompting another round of pained apologies from Tom.

“But he didn’t!”

“Yeah, how?” Harry interjected. “Whatever you are, you sure as fuck aren’t human!”

“I’m a Cancer.”

“A what?”

“It’s my zodiac sign, numbnuts.”

I really should have just pulled the covers over my head and just gone back to sleep. Corrupted memories of that last night with Scarlett are preferable to whatever hell I’ve landed myself in by picking up this kid.

Yes, a small voice in the back his mind whispered. But think about how valuable someone as indestructible as her will be. Against the law, against that reporter, against Sakharine.

Against Rastapopoulos.

The man couldn’t counter someone with advanced knowledge from another reality. No one could, really, and Allan knew he was extremely fortunate to have Shadow in his hands. If she wasn’t…

He couldn’t lose this kid. Not to Sakharine, not to the law, and not to internal bleeding from Tom’s lead foot.

Hopefully she’d be more tolerant of Allan or Omar checking her over, as Neil still wasn’t getting anywhere with the still combative Shadow.

First thing once you get her to the warehouse and into a crate, is go directly to Omar and get him to the hold so he can check her out first thing.

Screeching to a halt in the warehouse next to small crate they’d chosen for Shadow, Allan jumped out of the passenger side and flung open the door by Neil. “Get her out here.”

“I ain’t helpless!” Shadow protested as Neil carefully pulled her out. She wriggled in his grip again. “Paws off, fucks’ sake.”

“Kid, hold still for one second,” Allan ordered, trying to see if her pupils were still normal. When she wouldn’t hold still, too busy squabbling with Neil, Allan grabbed her face. “Hold still!”

Shadow froze, eyes wide, before they drafted down to his hand.

“Don’t even think about bitin’ me,” Allan warned as he felt her jaw move down and saw a hint of her teeth.

Shadow paused, eyes going back to him, before she scowled and hid her teeth away. “Kill joy,” she muttered.

“Yeah yeah,” Allan retorted, studying her pupils.

Still normal, and she’s not showing any signs of impairment. Still acting, moving, and talking the same as she was this morning.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe they all really were dreaming.

Some… mass dream state?

It wasn’t impossible.

Maybe it was a test? Test from Scarlett, who somehow hijacked their dreams?

How could they truly know?

Does it matter?

It very much did, as while Allan could handle aliens and other universes, other universes where he was fictional were a bit of a bigger hurdle.

Focus. Just bite the bullet and accept it. Losin’ your head won’t help anyone.

“Can you let go of my face?” Shadow mumbled, voice slightly distorted.

“Can I get a please?”

“You can get a warnin’ before I break your fuckin’ knees,” Shadow said happily.

Allan let go. “She’s still sane, not bleedin’ anywhere, and nothin’ seems to be broken,” he announced. “You boys get ‘er on the ship. Don’t use the crane, too obvious. Wheel her up in a stack of crates.”

“What if she passes out or worse when she’s in there and we don’t find out until it’s too late?” Tom fretted.

“Then you better get it done quick.”

“But-“

“Tom,” Shadow interrupted. “If I don’t find myself on that cargo ship in the next five minutes, I’m marching up the gangplank myself.”

“But-“

“Nah, listen to me.” Shadow pointed at herself with each emphasized word. “I. Want. To. Get. On. That. Ship." She pointed to the door. “Now.”

Tom still looked worried. “Are ya sure ya feel fine?”

“Positive as a proton, now let’s hop to it!”

[shads-shipposts]

A doodle from Discord, showcasing the initial relationship between Shadow and Allan. He tries to be a more stern authority figure, thinking he has to keep Shadow in line like most people outside of his crew (fear/strict boundaries/manipulation)

Once he discovers that Shadow is more so loyal to him as a person rather than for what he can give them (money/power), Allan gives up on being the stern mentor and leans into the wisecracks and frequent throw downs that he’s come to expect from Shadow. It’s what works with the members of the crew he considers his friends so it’s not exactly performative, there’s genuine playfulness behind the teasing and rough housing

After he makes the switch the bond takes off and they become a “Fuck around, find out” duo. Depending on the situation, it swaps. Tom is the voice of reason 80% of the time.