#Small Vial Filling Machine

[adinathinternationalindia]

Small Vial Filling Machine R&D Lab Model

Small Vial Filling Machine R&D Lab Model The model combines cap sealing, stoppering, and filling processes into a single platform. Filling operations can be provided via peristaltic or piston pumps. With the ability to partially seal vials for lye or free drying, the design is monoblock-style. FDA-approved materials or Stainless Steel 316L contact regions provide cGMP compliance.

Lab Scale Vial Filler with either manual or automatic stoppering, depending on the end user’s budget.

[dazed-and-confused23]

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 6

Summary: There is only so much you can do for Cooper when the two of you are attacked, and the extra vials you carry are crushed. There is only so much you can do when Cooper’s stash runs out. The wasteland takes as much as much it gives.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader

Warnings. Pretty angst filled here. Plus some kissing.

Masterlist

Part 2 -> HERE

It's been a week, give or take a couple of hours, since the group of raiders had jumped Cooper and his trader. They'd been wandering through some ruins, sightseeing as you liked to call it, when they began to crawl out of the burnt out buildings like ants. You and Cooper had worked like a well-oiled machine, but that still didn't mean that either of you was perfect.

One of the raiders had gotten the drop on you, literally flinging herself from the second flood of a building and slamming into your back, and in turn, your backpack that carried your wares inside. You thrashed about, jerking back and crushing the woman against the concrete wall, trying to shake her off. You smacked her again against the wall, and finally, she lost her grip and fell to the floor.

Cooper had shot the raider before she had time to get up, gore splattering the wall, and then the fight was back on. The two of you were exhausted by the time the fighting was done, and after a bit of well deserved looting, Coop had made a small fire in one of the more preserved buildings and you began to sort through your wares.

While the ghoul sucked down a vial, you had found the crushed medical case, heart shattering when you'd opened it to reveal your sizeable stash of chems destroyed. Fear had gripped your heart, and you shifted through your shattered stockpile and found a single surviving tube.

You'd looked at your ghoul, who looked relaxed across the campfire. The two of you were deep in the wasteland. At least a two week journey to the next town, and it would be a gamble if they sold the chems Cooper would need. You'd swallowed harshly and called his name, voice cracking.

"Cooper. We've got a problem."

His gaze had sharpened, his eyes skating over your form and looking for any kind of injury. When he found nothing, he raised a brow, confused, but still weary of your fearful expression.

"What's wrong, Darlin'. You look right as rain to me," He rasped and reached for his canteen, taking a swig of water that he immediately choked on when you lifted up the single vial. He stands and crosses the fire, crouching down and shifting through the broken glass himself.

"When did this happen?" He demands, and you cast your mind back, thinking hard.

"That one raider. She jumped on my back. They were probably crushed in the fight," you say and hand him the surviving vial, "That's the only one I found."

Rage and fear war within his chest, and Cooper stands, kicking a rock as hard as he could, a snarl on his lips, "Fuck!"

Now, a week later, Cooper hardly had the strength to move. The caughing had started two days ago after he'd sucked down the last chem. He lagged behind you, shoulders drooping and hat covering much of his face as he focused on putting one boot in front of the other. The clinking of his spurs was your only comfort.

Another two days passed, and Cooper couldn't go on. His strength sapped from his bones as he lay across from you, posted up on an old bed in a dusty motel. You kneeled by his side, fingertips tracing his jaw and up his cheekbones. You sniffled heavily, and then leaned in to kiss his brow.

"Ain't gotta go cryin' over me, Darlin'," Cooper murmured and closed his eyes, wishing that he could feel the press of your lips against his flesh better. A tickle licked his throat, and he turned away from you to hack, spit flying and a wheeze echoing through the room when he flopped back in the bed.

You ignore his words and fish out a bottle of water to hand him. You watch, concern coating your features as he hand trembles, and Cooper ends up splashing himself. You hold it steady after he sighs heavily and hands the bottle back.

"Promise me that you'll still be here when I get back," you say after you've taken the water back and stowed it away. You've got a plan, and you'll be much faster by yourself, now it was the hard part, and that was leaving Cooper behind.

Your ghoul sighs and gives you a look. Coop thinks that the two of you have had a good run, and if this is how he's gotta go, then so be it. He just hates that the last thing he'll see is you crying.

"Baby girl. I can't make you a promise I can't keep," He rumbles and forces himself to sit up, giving his girl a weary grin and taking your hands in his own. He presses his lips to your knuckles, one at a time, "You can't let some old man like me slow you down."

You force back the tears that threaten to fall. Coop never liked it when you cried, and you would do your best not to now. You would save this stubborn bastard if it was the last thing you did. Using his hold on you, you tug him down and in for a kiss, so sweet and full of love that the ghoul's clutches you back before he has to pull away and cough harshly.

"I'll be back before you know it, Cowpoke," you say, and at this point, you don't know if it's to assure him or you. You push yourself to your feet and fix your pack, bending to kiss Cooper one last time, memorizing the rough feel of his lips against yours.

Cooper pushes you away after a moment, a fond smirk playing on his lips, "Get outta here, cowgirl. I'll stay right here."

You give a decisive nod and then march away from him, exiting the motel and starting in the direction of the closest town. You had a ghoul to save.

[hotmentransformed]

Undercover Agent

Edgar had always been the quiet type, the kind of boy who preferred the company of books to people. His fascination with the FBI began in childhood, fueled by late-night spy movies and crime novels. Growing up in a small town, his dream of becoming an agent seemed distant and improbable, but Edgar's determination never wavered. He studied hard, earned top grades at an Ivy League, and applied for every opportunity that could bring him closer to his goal.

When he received the letter offering him an internship at the FBI office in Washington D.C., Edgar couldn't believe his luck. He packed his bags and left for the U.S. capital, filled with nervous excitement.

His first day was a whirlwind of introductions, security clearances, and overwhelming awe at the sheer scale of the operation. He was assigned to the administrative department, a role that felt both thrilling and mundane.

Edgar's days were filled with menial tasks: sorting files, delivering messages, and making coffee runs. Yet, every interaction with the agents and every glimpse into their work only deepened his resolve. He longed to be part of their world, to contribute to something meaningful. His unassuming nature meant he often went unnoticed, but he observed everything with keen interest.

One afternoon, as he was delivering a stack of files to a high-security area, Edgar noticed a door slightly ajar. The sign on the door read "Restricted Access: Authorized Personnel Only." His heart skipped a beat. What secrets lay behind that door? His curiosity was piqued. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and then slipped inside.

The room was dimly lit and filled with an array of scientific equipment. Beakers bubbled, machines hummed, and shelves were lined with vials of various colors. One vial, in particular, caught Edgar's eye. It was a luminous blue, glowing faintly in the low light. The label read "Project Chimera: Undercover Agent Enhancement."

Edgar’s curiosity overwhelmed him. He picked up the vial and turned it over in his hands, wondering what kind of enhancement it promised. He imagined himself as a capable, confident agent, ready to take on the world. The thought was intoxicating. Before he could talk himself out of it, Edgar uncorked the vial and drank it down.

The cool liquid had a faint taste of mint, and he swallowed it down in one gulp. At first, nothing happened, and he began to feel foolish for having taken such a reckless risk. Surely he would be fired after they found the empty vial. But then, a warmth spread through his chest, radiating outward like ripples in a pond.

Suddenly, he doubled over, clutching his stomach as a wave of energy surged through his body. It felt as though every cell in his body was being recharged, filling him with a power he had never known. His muscles began to tingle, then burn, as they expanded and hardened. He watched in awe as his biceps bulged, the fabric of his polo straining to contain his growing arms. His chest broadened as dark hair swirled around, pushing its way from the bursting buttons. Each breath he took caused his pectoral muscles to swell and push against the confines of his shirt, threatening to rip it completely from his torso.

His legs thickened with powerful new muscles. He felt his posture straighten, his spine elongating as his back muscles pulled him upright. The once baggy clothes he wore were now tight and restrictive, seams straining under the pressure of his rapidly expanding physique. He could feel his strength increasing with every passing second, the awkwardness of his former self melting away to reveal a body that looked like it belonged to a professional athlete or a comic book superhero.

His vision sharpened, and he instinctively reached up to remove his glasses. He no longer needed them; his eyesight was now perfect, every detail in the room coming into crystal-clear focus. Edgar stumbled to a mirror on the wall, hardly daring to believe what he might see. The reflection staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. The once scrawny intern had been replaced by a tall, muscular young man with chiseled features. His face had changed too—his jawline was stronger, more defined, and his eyes, now a piercing blue, seemed to sparkle with confidence.

Edgar flexed his new muscles, feeling a rush of exhilaration. His biceps, triceps, and deltoids rippled under his skin, each movement revealing the power contained within his new body. He ran his hands over his chest and abs, marveling at the firm, sculpted muscles that had replaced his once soft and unimpressive frame. He felt invincible, every ounce of self-doubt and insecurity evaporating in the face of his newfound strength and confidence.

As he continued to examine himself, the door to the laboratory swung open, and a female service agent walked in. She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening in shock. There was a strange man who had broken into the FBI office. Edgar turned to face her, his new features displaying a calm assurance he had never possessed before.

"It's me, Edgar," he said, his voice deeper and more resonant than he remembered. "I... I drank the serum."

The agent's shock slowly turned to suspicion as she studied him. "You know this is a serious breach of protocol, right?" she said, her tone stern but not unkind.

"Yes, ma'am. But maybe it happened for a reason. Maybe I can help," Edgar replied, feeling a newfound boldness and blinding arrogance.

She looked him up and down, then sighed. "We do have a situation. There's a drug ring operating out of the Alpha Epsilon Pi frat at Georgetown, and we need someone to go undercover. They'd never suspect a new guy like you."

Edgar felt a thrill of excitement. He had the chance to prove himself, to show that he was more than just an intern. Now he was an undercover agent.

[bittrlys]

The Dragon Prince season 6 is like watching people write themselves into a corner in real time. Exciting! Massive spoilers ahead, of course.

THE GOOD

Opening on Aaravos crying was a very strong choice, this is the actual 'Mystery of Aaravos' type content I've been waiting for

Terry picking up Viren while they're excited about him being alive is very cute

As ever, Terry being extremely ride or die is 👍

Terry taking care of Claudia was very sweet; Terry cutting Claudia's hair and Claudia's new haircut in general. Cute.

Viren and Claudia on the beach, "No parent wants their child to suffer for them." Oof.

In general, I was quite happy with everything Viren, Claudia, and even Soren, and I actually wrote a note of "i hate soren" at the start because I thought we were gearing up for another season of him just being a bad joke machine with no real character or feelings to speak of. But then they gave him, like, actual pathos! They let him interact with people in a way that feels human! They let him be resentful and complicated! Wow! Magefam is so back baby!

Viren trying to reconcile with Soren and be a better example for Claudia really got to me. His final sacrifice (OMG CRIMINAL BY FIONA APPLE JUST CAME ON SHUFFLE.......WHAT I NEED IS A GOOD DEFENSE CUS I'M FEELING LIKE A CRIMINAL.......AND I NEED TO BE REDEEMED TO THE ONE I'VE SINNED AGAINST.....) is tied so strongly to his children and that feels like a natural place to leave his character. Now, I've been saying forever that he was going to get a redemption via death, and figured Aaravos would be the one pulling the trigger, so none of that surprised me, but I thought the actual execution was generally good. I do have some more negative thoughts but I'll save those for later.

Viren is very good at justifying himself, and I like that you see him falling back into that, at times struggling with it, at times not even catching himself doing it. It feels very real. At the same time, I don't think he's ever seen himself as a hero, so it was interesting to let him go out on such a heroic note.

Viren's kind of abuse-coded (not actually abusive, IMO, but I understand if this makes people uncomfortable in a similar way) act of forcing Lissa to cry into the vial is interesting. It echoes him taking Sarai's last breath.

Him writing out his whole confession on this subject and then burning it because he realized it was only going to do him good was also very nice.

Though I wish Claudia had stuck by her 'I'm going solo' guns a little longer, I still think there's something to how she is so incapable of being alone, of thinking for herself, and desperately seeks direction. She is literally just like her dad, and it makes them both easy targets for Aaravos.

Like, Viren being such a force that Claudia easily followed him, then Claudia being such a force that Soren and Terry both easily followed her, and Aaravos being a supreme force Viren and Claudia both easily follow because at heart, they're more followers than leaders despite the force of their personalities and ambitions -- it's interesting.

Aaravos using Sol Regem to casually destroy a kingdom and kill Viren just as a small step in his plan is pretty fun. We love a grandiose villain!

Looking forward to Claudia and Aaravos. She's in some ways even more unequipped than Viren to handle Aaravos's manipulations, but at the same time, she's a lot more unpredictable than Viren. If this leads up to a confrontation between them, I think that could be really cool.

Aaravos tragic backstory with deleted child was really not on my bingo card at all -- I never thought 'noble revenge' would be his motivation. I like how this parallels him to Viren.

Aaravos crying enough to fill a sea is great imagery

The lore of the startouch elves being actual stars that descend is SO COOL. This is like, the first bit of worldbuilding in this show that's actually seriously impressed me. I love it.

Actual lore as to why humans don't have magic. Well. Not entirely. But it's better than what we had.

I liked Amaya and Janai's wedding looks. Cute.

Janai like Ehe I'll bring out my armies after I get married 😜 is funny. She isn't a very good queen but she is the moment! The gossip blogs would love her.

Ezran eating shit and not having his """diplomacy""" work out. LMAO.

SOL REGEM DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

Kinda getting a y'know vibe from Soren and Corvus. I wouldn't mind that. I like that Corvus feels a little more tolerant of Soren than everyone else. It's funny Soren is like finally I'm away from my shit family but his new friends don't seem to care about him at all. Go and be totally free of all this, dude, or get a boyfriend.

Runaan back just when I was starting to think this show really hates gay males.

Rayla correcting her assumption about the sex of the diary's author was cute with the voice over changing. (cont...)

THE BAD

(... cont.) Did unfortunately then make it feel like "Had to be a woman because the author will be pining for a man."

Why is Zym STILL just a dog. Bro. It's like if all through Avatar you had to be aware Appa was going to be king someday. STOP BARKING.

Waiting for the whole cast to become vegetarians and somehow I suspect that will not be happening

When Claudia is listing the spell ingredients she could harvest from that cat thing I was just desperate to have Terry go, "Well, some of those could be ethically harvested, right?"

I find prophecies fairly corny as a writing tool and I get why they're going there -- predicted futures are the source of the anti-human oppression -- but still, I sighed.

Luna Tenebris putting a collar on her pet feels like, weird, right? Right? Right? She's not human and dragons otherwise seem so Respect all magical creatures. (Allegedly.) What is the uneven treatment of animals in this universe.

Naming your episode Red Wedding and I don't see a bloodbath ... oh, come on.

That ramble about ships from Caleb. Shudder.

Jeez, who is Rayla going to save? Her uncle who is an actual character or her backstory parents who are obviously happy and at peace? God forbid one of our main heroes has an actual hard choice to make.

Related: Caleb's 5 second rehab from dark magic.

Making his inner truth being about one other person is ... well ....

Cutting from Viren's rapidly cooling corpse to Lujanne receiving a sensual back massage was certainly a Choice.

Viren missing his wife THIS MUCH when he's barely mentioned her up to now was a little weird. I honestly think they saw the homoerotic interpretations of the very intense dynamics he had with Harrow and Aaravos and have been steadily backpedalling from that. Don't get me wrong, I can believe he loved her and he misses her, but the degree of it feels totally unearned.

I get children's media will have mascots for the children, normally I don't mind them, but dear god this show is hitting critical mass on annoying sidekicks (Zym counts as a very big one and he's already nigh unbearable.)

THE UGLY

I can imagine that the descendants of the human children Leola granted magic to are now able to do magic naturally and this could be the lore behind either Caleb or Ezran's abilities. I actually don't mind this as finally being in-universe explanation for this disparity that isn't just 'they want it more' or whatever, but it doesn't help this show's "Better People Are Born Better" messaging. Now, in that vein ...

King Ezran is a KING. Have we mentioned this? He's a king. He's divinely ordained to be above everyone else. You must show him respect because he's KING. Even Rayla emphasizes what a KING he is. BOW BEFORE HIM.

Ezran's idea of """diplomacy""" is just going "Be nice, please." (Followed by a threat LMAO.) "Go live somewhere else." WHERE. What if they try to occupy territory that isn't theirs? Xadian society seems quite separated and territorial. Ezran doesn't consider this. He doesn't consider anything. He has no actual diplomatic skills because he never offers anything, he just expects people to listen to him because he's KING.

You know in Parasite when they're like Of course the rich people are nice, they can afford to be? When Ezran was going I'm a king and I can choose kindness I was like, You're king because of an accident of your birth, and all your privilege and people looking out for you allows you to operate the way you do.

(Janai having an evil brother who is Not The True Heir To The Throne and Trying To Steal It is just part of the show's overall obsession with this narrative -- see also Viren coming from a less privileged background.)

Of course it's still funny to see Ezran be continuously characterized as So Compassionate, So Loving but when it comes to say, Not burning his own people alive or Extending the hand of kindness to one of his oldest childhood friends or her father, he just turns that shit off. This could be interesting hypocrisy if I thought the show was trying to intentionally paint him this way, instead of just wanting him to not be a total pushover because he's THE KING!!! ALL BOW BEFORE THE KING!!!!

The unbelievable frustration caused by a scene where Claudia is begging to not have to use dark magic -- Terry coming in and saving the day with natural magic -- Claudia staring at the peaceful solution and realizing she needs to change -- BUT IT'S STILL A FUNDAMENTAL DISPARITY IN HOW HUMANS CAN EXIST IN THIS WORLD? Is Claudia supposed to die because dark magic is too wrong to use? Now we have the reveal that humans are being actively denied magic I'm hesitantly hopeful they may get some justice in this regard, but it doesn't change the reality of humans right now. What are humans supposed to do? Rely on others for help? Oh, sure, most of the elves and dragons we meet now are just so nice and helpful to humans, because of the show's 'bad apple' approach to prejudice I've mentioned before, but we know that wasn't always the case.

Like, this actual reminder that the difference in power between a single dragon and a human settlement, and unlike the last time we're on the side of humans this time so you can better appreciate the horror of it ... it's depressing to feel like "Only by grace of your betters do you survive." It's echoes of Janai's 'forgiveness' of the human who put out the fire of that elf who assaulted her. "Aren't you lucky we're so NICE?"

This is all compounded by what I meant at the start of my review, that they've written themselves into a corner, especially wrt dark magic. In universe Soren sees no choice but to ask his father to do dark magic, something all the characters scold each other for constantly. Out of universe, the writers had a huge fuck off dragon come along to commit genocide against the humans and the only realistic solution is .... having Viren do dark magic, something the narrative constantly reinforces as bad. They ultimately frame this act as heroic, and according to a writer (I believe) on the discord, he speaks the spell forward to represent how this act of inherent good overcomes the "inherent evil" of dark magic (quotation marks theirs, interestingly.) I think the writers, for the most part, clearly like Viren and Claudia a lot, and like giving them 'big moments' with dark magic ... but this is part of the reason why the show has continuously reinforced a NEED for dark magic without giving any viable solution for the average human who doesn't have natural magical powers or is friends with dragons and elves like our main heroes. Ultimately, it feels hypocritical of the show to keep going on about the evil of dark magic (now very firmly an addiction metaphor) while having no solution for humans in tricky situations that aren't "magic you and only you can do, for some reason" or "queen dragon who somehow still isn't dead dear god coming to save you" or, y'know, "dark magic." Only one of these is really viable for the average person.

Like, you make it an addiction metaphor, but where's the alternative? Vampires need to drink blood to survive but vampire series often show vampires refusing to drink human blood as an addiction metaphor ... they drink animal blood instead, or something, and you get the metaphor. Right now, in TDP, it's either, do dark magic and suffer, or don't do dark magic and ... suffer more? Okay. I'm not saying life has to be fair or that there isn't value in accepting loss, but when Viren scolds Kpp'Ar for having all his fun with dark magic and then very callously dismissing Viren's fear for his son, I felt that. Viren isn't begging for a beer here. He's begging to save his son. Addiction metaphors need to match the scale and reality of what is being shown to you.

Sorry, I'm now going to harp on more about the Your Betters Are Born Better stuff now because I was actually enjoying (you know, tearfully so) Viren's death until his final lines. WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I GASPED!!!!!!!! HOLD ON!!!!!!!!!!! Like, let me get it out of the way, I get it echoes his last exchange to Harrow and his loyalty to Harrow is tied to his loyalty to Katolis, and they're saying "He was power hungry but now he is acting in a way that is purely, totally selfless for maybe the first time in his life," which is fine. The problem is, I have sat through six seasons of this show kissing royal ass. I have seen Aanya (shudder) mock him for not being a real noble-born ruler. I have seen Ezran's divine authority be reinforced time and again, and seen Viren throw himself submissively before his King to submit to his judgement as King, not as someone he once hurt. I have been reminded time and again that less privileged people who want the power necessary to succeed in a world biased against them are power-hungry lunatics unless they submit themselves enough to the Supreme Order of the world. So to have Viren's last words be him reinforcing that the most heroic thing he can ever be is A LOYAL SERVANT is just ... horrible. If they'd just kept the framing of Viren's death on his love for his family, it would have been way, way better.

Altogether I uh guess the season was mostly fine. They actually did a better job tying disparate narratives together with common themes which I appreciate. I liked the magefam stuff. I hope Soren eventually learns the stuff Viren chose not to tell him. I hope there's realistic forward growth on the attitude towards dark magic and why humans feel they need it, like some acknowledgement that Katolis was only saved because of Viren (make that two nations he has explicitly saved.) Maybe even Ezran can take a break from being unbearably sanctimonious to properly acknowledge his sacrifice. That would be nice!

I really hope humans get some justice for how they've been actively denied a valuable resource. It seems a self-fulfilling prophecy (they punished Leola for giving humans magic, this made Aaravos go darksided, Aaravos gave humans dark magic, humans are very set against the magical community for the way they've been treated so they're more callous about using dark magic) so I hope the ultimate lesson won't be "humans don't deserve this" but "humans only ended up here because they were treated like they don't deserve it, but they do, by right of existing as beings in this world." If Callum (+ Ezran) end the series as the only or some of the only humans with magic powers, I'm going to eat drywall.

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Double-Mutated Mikey

Chapter 40: Biofilm

Continued from the short story written by @boots-with-the-fur-club

Prev || Next

Donatello races down the hallway, checking his trackers every few minutes to make sure everything is going smoothly with the others. After this is over, he's thinking of adding hidden cameras to their masks as well, so he can also see where they are, not just know their longitude and latitude. What good is knowing where a person is if you can't know what's going on?

Donnie started getting into the trackers phase when they'd first come up against the Foot Clan, and Raph had accidentally eaten a tracker meant for a salami paper stack. That had been the inspiration to start tagging his family. He'd installed the subdermal trackers sometime after then, working on different updates and methods of inserting them under the skin or under their shells when they weren't looking or conscious or aware or -- well, you get the idea.

But as time went on, he'd started thinking maybe adding a visual or audio aspect to the tracers was a good idea. It was starting to annoy him that his brothers and father would go places alone for long periods of time and he wouldn't know why or what was happening. Donnie would never consider himself 'clingy'. Or at least, he'd never admit that he was. Donnie was just... concerned for their well-being. And it always seemed like their well-being was coming into question whenever he was not with them. He should have added the video/audio feed to the trackers a long time ago.

He'd have known what was taking Leo so long to get them back after they'd been portaled to Tahiti.

He'd have known what Leo and Papa were doing with Big Mama while they dealt with the Shredder.

He'd have known where the Shredder and the Foot Lieutenant and Foot Brute and Cassandra took Splinter and Barry when they attacked their old lair.

He'd have known what the Krang were doing with Raphael when he was captured.

He'd have known what happened to Leo in the Prison Dimension.

He'd have known about Mikey's captivity and recapture.

He'd have known how to be the genius they all needed him to be.

He'd have known how to be a better brother...

Donnie swallows the thoughts and keeps on moving. He turns a corner and sees a strange laboratory, filled with machines and mechanisms and lasers and weird gadgets that Donnie would be more than happy to take home with him... But it also has what looks like a few medical devices stored in there as well. A CT scanner, an X-ray machine, other devices that Donatello recognizes from science-fiction films and spy movies that definitely won't be found in any normal hospital.

This looks like the kind of place that a man specialized in engineering and robotics would be hiding in...

Donnie sneaks over to the room, not caring about dodging cameras. The building's been evacuated, and even if it hadn't been, everybody already knows that they're here.

The door was left open by a careless employee trying to leave in a hurry. Perfect! Donnie's ninpo can create all kinds of stuff, but making small items to hack into things like security systems takes a lot of brainpower. And -- you didn't hear it from him -- it's difficult. His ninpo works like his mind, building the items piece by piece, engineering the weapons or defense mechs however he sees it in his head. And while he is a genius, even geniuses have trouble keeping track of hundreds of thousands of lines of programming. Even a small item like the USB flash drive he gave April earlier would take a lot of internal interfacing and coding... it's exhausting. But not impossible.

But fortunately, it isn't necessary.

Donatello sneaks in cautiously. It's strange how the room is a Frankenstein mashup between a doctor's office and a robotics lab. Secretly, Donnie is taking mental notes on how to incorporate some of these ideas and designs into his own lab.

There are desks covered with tools and blueprints. Cabinets with vials and liters of mysterious multi-coloured liquids. Tables with a few unpacked boxes stuffed with strange items and labels scribbled messily onto the cardboard. On one said table is a crate. Poking out of said crate, Donatello can see a wooden staff with purple wraps, two familiar blue hilts for what he can assume are twin katanas, and the edges of a battleshell.

"Our stuff!" he whispers to himself. They definitely need to get those back...

Donnie rushes to the box and starts rummaging through it. Yep, it's all here... Dee's gear, Leo's swords, Raph's sai. He reaches in and retrieves the weapons, looking them over for anything like tags or trackers that the TCRI or EPF would have placed on them. They look fine...

"My goggles!" Dee cheers, grabbing them quickly and placing them over his eyes to inspect the software. "Oh, thank God they didn't mess with my babies..."

"Don't thank Him just yet!" a voice cries out from behind him.

Donnie yipes before ducking, narrowly avoiding a swing from a madman behind him. He doesn't look like a guard, but instead wears a standard white lab coat. His hair is wild and unkempt, dark eyebags sag on his face, his chin is stubbled with untended scruff. By the looks of it, his only diet is caffeine and the suffering of others. He must be a scientist, then. His voice sounds familiar; Donnie's sure he's seen or heard him before...

"You were on the video files from the previous building!" he realizes, quickly grabbing his bō from the box and readying himself. "You made Mikey fight monsters in the Interaction room..."

"I see someone's been doing some research!" the man chuckles, his eyes wide and firey. "I'm flattered you recognized me. The name's Dr. Rod Timothy, not that you'll have much of a mind to recall that after I finish with you!!"

Donnie dodges as Dr. Timothy grabs a futuristic weapon from the table and fires it at him. Burning red blasts of light fly through the air. Dee ducks quickly, jumping to the side as he tries to come up with a weapon of his own. His mind always goes straight to the extreme -- 'go big or go home,' 'more bang for your buck', etc. Typically, the villains he fights are durable and super-strong mutants, they require bigger weapons like missiles and giant drills or hammers, etc. Humans are small, easy to break, but fierce and determined. They're harder to gauge, and Donnie has to search his mind for a weapon he can use against him without actually causing too much damage. Not just to the human, but also to the building itself. So missiles are off the menu.

Donnie's palm fills with parts and pieces that instantly grow together and attach in method and order, creating a mini grenade. He taps a button and sends the round object flying towards the scientist. It lands just a few feet in front of him and -- BOOM -- the flash grenade goes off, blinding the man as Dee uses his goggles to guide him through the room and find a place to hide.

"AGH!" Timothy screams, covering his watering eyes as he staggers around. "Y-you... you see, this is exactly why I was hoping you'd come here..."

Donnie peeks out from behind a giant scanner, watching as the mad scientist stumbles around chuckling.

"You creatures always have such a strange tolerance... it's superhuman...!"

The man looks up and looks around, pupils dilating like crazy as he frantically flails his arms and hands, feeling for something.

"And soon, I will be too..."

He really is insane, Donnie thinks to himself.

"If you're so keen on mutants, why'd you experiment on my brother?!" Donnie snarls.

Dr. Timothy reels around and stares blindly in Dee's direction, trying to listen as Donnie ninjas away to a new location to watch Timothy... and lure him into a trap.

"Oh, yes," Timothy laughs, the tears from his watering eyes streaming down his face. "You're brother was loads of fun. I enjoyed our little exercises and examinations thoroughly... Such a fun little plaything, a wonderful puzzle to take apart and put back together."

"Anyone ever tell you to get psychiatric help?" Donnie growls.

"More often than you'd think," Timothy cackles. "But they don't see the necessity of my methods! The vision! They're all sniveling, spineless, mindless plebeians who cannot understand the future..."

"What future is that?" Donnie asks, purposefully directing the man towards the far back of the room.

"Oh, one that you'd approve of!" Timothy laughs, blinking quickly, eyes darting back and forth. "A future free of humans. A future of mutants."

"What are you talking about?" Donnie asks, genuinely confused. "Chaplin wants to eradicate the mutants, why --"

"Oh, he's nothing more than a COWARD!!" Timothy bellows, fist pounding on the side of the table and sending small items flying. "He's a pathetic hatemonger who can't see that the only way for humanity to advance is to literally advance as a species and evolve! He thinks that what we need is to take out the competition!"

Dr. Timothy smiles so wide, his face contorts as though it's made of flabby plastic.

"I say we need to switch flags."

Donnie purposely knocks over small rolling cart of supplies, causing Dr. Timothy to stagger towards the sound.

"Chaplin is a visionary, though. And a golden goose. I never would have been able to pursue my research without his funding..."

"Well, the golden goose won't be laying anymore eggs for you psychopaths," Donnie huffs. "Chaplin's dead."

Timothy grunts at the news. Donnie can't tell if he's laughing, or making strange sad noises. The deranged fiend turns to stare blankly at the table, almost wistfully, reminiscing his fellow evil scientist.

"Well... he was a very significant man. Powerful, resourceful, determined... but I can't say that I'm not a little glad that he's gone."

"Oh?" Donnie chuckles. "No love lost between coworkers?"

"I had respect for the man, it's true," Timothy grumbles, reaching across the table strewn with supplies as he feels his way around. His fingers curl over a few of the objects laid before him as he moves forwards. "But his values and ideals were misguided and foolish. Only the strong come out on top."

"I'd like to think the smart ones have a pretty good chance, too..." Donnie remarks, stepping into a side room and waiting for Dr. Timothy to tag along.

"Oh, I agree!" he laughs, following Donnie's voice into the dark room. "Which is why I hate to see you die."

Timothy grips one of the items pulled from the table and clicks a button. A long laser-weapon activates, and he laughs as he runs in after the softshell.

"Nice sword-axe-laser-combo," Donnie smirks. "Where'd you get it? Hollywood Studios in Florida?"

"Do you like it?" Dr. Timothy grins sarcastically. "It's just one of the few things I thought to bring with me for this climactic stand-off..."

He presses a button and the door behind him slams shut with a mechanical hiss. Dr. Rod Timothy brandishes the weapon casually at the mutant teen who cooly holds his bō staff out at the man as well, ready for a duel.

"Does this room look familiar?" Timothy cackles. "If you really did the research, then it should. It's the same as the one your sweet little science experiment of a sibling was made to fight in! Only right we made another one for the experiments to follow... And I can't wait to see what happens to you in it."

Donatello smiles.

"You want me to fight you? The same way you made my baby brother fight your mutant monsters?"

"Oh, you can fight one of my monsters too if you want!" Timothy shrieks with laughter, holding up a small remote control. "With a push of a button, they can come pouring in. But for now, I want to see what you can do. See what parts of you to keep and what to... scrap."

Donnie sneers.

"So this is an assessment, then."

"I suppose so," Dr. Timothy shrugs. "But we'll see who wins."

Timothy charges, laser weapon at the ready. Donatello grips his bō staff and swings it, blocking Timothy's attack. A purple shield forms and pushes him back. Timothy grunts with effort as his feet skid across the tiles. He laughs hysterically, eyes growing ever wider.

He charges again, swinging the battleaxe around before striking again. Donnie's battleshell opens up and reveals a small jetpack, which takes him up into the air. He launches over Timothy and lands behind him, clicking a hidden button on the shoulder pad and activating a wire that wraps around the mad scientist. Dee launches again and prepares to strap the man from the ceiling and literally leave him hanging.

Dr. Timothy squirms about and manages to pull an arm out, fumbling with the laser device and cutting the line. As Timothy freefalls, Donnie's jetpack crashes him into the ceiling as it attempts and fails to compensate for the sudden loss of weight. Timothy pulls another device he'd taken from the table and points it at Donnie. A small gun, almost like a pistol, which fires out a sudden blue blast at Dee's jetpack. The rotors freeze, ice covers the exhaust ports, and the whole jetpack itself malfunctions and sends Dee crashing to the ground.

"Your brother showed a severe aversion to cold, so in order to keep him in line we created a series of ice-generating weapons like this handy little prototype," Timothy boasts, twirling the pistol around like it's a toy.

Donnie growls in fury. Timothy fires a few more shots, blasting the turtle in the arm and leg as he tries to get back up from the fall. Donnie yells in pain as his limbs suffer from ice burn and start to turn red and swollen from the cold blasts. Shards of frost and ice crystals form on the skin. Donnie gasps from the pain and starts rubbing his limbs, careful not to let the injuries turn into frostbite. Timothy fires another shot, but this time Donnie is careful to dodge it, jumping out of the way despite the pain. Timothy fires again. Dee swings his bō at the man, creating shield that blocks the blast. He swings again, dissolving the shield and reforming it to create a replica pistol that fires directly at the weapon, clogging the barrel of Timothy's gun with ice.

"That was good!" Timothy laughs, dropping the gun before his fingers freeze to the metal. "Nice deflection! And it's clear that I could not defeat you physically. Your mutant genetics must have enhanced your bone structure and muscle mass, yes?"

"That's one theory," Donnie snarks at him. "Or you could just be a weak old guy with a pathetic toy gun."

Dr. Timothy laughs again.

"I'm technically not old, I'm 36."

"That's old, dude."

"Kids these days..." Dr. Timothy sighs. "If brawn cannot win, then perhaps brains shall..."

Dr. Timothy starts clicking buttons on the remote, setting off a few movement-tracking firearms. Donnie recognizes the sleek black metal machine guns from some of Mikey's recorded sessions in the Interaction Room. Dee creates another shield and avoids the torrent of bullets and darts that fly as Dr. Timothy advances again.

"Let's see how you fare against two threats at once!"

Donnie ducks back, hand and staff flying forward as he thinks up a quick weapon to make for his defense. A purple ninpo hologram forms over the wood, creating an imitation of his old tech-bo. A giant mechanical fist ignites at one end, and Dr. Timothy and Donatello exchange blow for blow, guarding and attacking as the two simultaneously dodge bullets from above.

"Where do you come up with these weapon ideas? Jupiter Jim's 19th Return to the Moon?"

"Two distractions at once, and he still finds the mental capacity for a rib!" Timothy laughs. "I should spar with my creations more often..."

"I am not your creation!" Donnie yells. "AND NEITHER IS MY BROTHER!!!"

Donnie suddenly snaps, kicking Dr. Timothy in the chest and sending him back into the wall. Timothy's weapon knocked from his hand, Donnie grabs it and flings the laser cutter towards the turrets, tearing them in half and destroying them completely.

"Very well done!" Timothy chuckles nervously, as he half-struggles to get up. "Well done indeed! You are quite the adversary. But, I would wonder how well you'd fare after I become one of YOU!"

Donnie watches in confusion as the scientist pulls a syringe from his pocket. It's glowing green.

"This is a mutation formula that I've reverse-engineered from some samples I found over the years. Your brother is one of them, true... but the majority of the formula comes from a few mosquitos we found buzzing around..."

"Draxum's ooze," Donnie gapes, his voice a horrified hush. "You're going to mutate yourself?!"

"It's about time I evolved into the higher species!" Timothy cackles madly, his mind fully gone. "And now with Chaplin out of the way, there's no stopping me!!"

"Wait!" Donnie tries to warn. "You don't know what that will do to you!!"

"I know exactly what will happen!" Timothy screams back. "I will finally be the apex predator!! Now watch as I become a random creature of mass destruction!!"

Timothy stabs the syringe into his arm, the re-created ooze seeping into his veins.

"Random?" Donnie questions. "No, you'll just turn into the last biological organism you came into contact with."

"Wait, what?" Timothy questions, sobering for one second. "What do you mean, the last thing biological organism?"

"The ooze combines your DNA with that of whatever you touched last. Didn't you know that?"

"No! How would I know that?!" Timothy screeches, gripping his sides in pain as the ooze starts to recreate him.

"Looks like somebody didn't do their homework after all..."

"What am I going to become?!" Timothy shrieks, his whole frame shaking.

"Well, what did you touch last?"

"YOU!"

"No, you never actually touched me," Donnie clarifies. "You're wearing gloves, and your weapons hit mine, but we never came into actual contact -- details matter in science, you know..."

"W-WHAT'S HAPPENING TO M-M-MEEEEEE?!?!" Timothy screams, his voice fluctuating and gargling as he begins to sweat profusely.

It's not sweat.

His skin is melting.

Donnie watches with a sickened expression as Dr. Timothy's body begins to turn into a sludge, the skin tone changing into a slimy fungus-green, every part of him slowly dissolving and gooping together in a way that turns Donnie's stomach. He looks away, and forces himself to keep away even as the man screams and pleads for mercy and help. His voice is literally drowned out as his vocal chords liquify along with the rest of him.

It goes quiet. Donnie shakily turns to see what has become of the poor deranged man. Nothing remains but a puddle of gelatinous ooze wobbling on the floor several feet ahead of him.

"L-looks like your reverse-engineered formula wasn't complete," Donnie gulps. "Or maybe the ooze really did transform you into the last thing you touched... which would have been the ooze itself. Whatever the solution, I'm not going to stick around for --"

A gurgling scream tears the room apart, as the gelatinous blob starts moving, shifting, and reforming into a sloppy mess of a man.

"Lₒₒₖ wₕₐₜ yₒᵤ'ᵥₑ dₒₙₑ ₜₒ ₘe!" Timothy shrieks, his voice a wobbly, watery mess as he slowly pulls himself together. "I wₐₛ mₑₐₙt ₜₒ ᵇe ₐ fᵢₑᵣcₑ ₘᵤₜaₙt! Nₒₜ ₐ ᵇₗᵤbᵇeᵣᵢₙg … ₜhᵢₙg!!"

The newly transformed Timothy charges at Donnie, his arm elongating and stretching like those slappy hand things Mikey was obsessed with at the age of six. Donnie dodges it at the last second, the hand slinging across the room and sticking to a panel on the wall. It rips the panel straight off, revealing a section of machinery hidden behind it.

"Whoah!" Donnie yells, dodging once again as the arm comes slinging back.

"I dᵢdₙ'ₜ wₐₙₜ ₜhiₛ!" Timothy screeches as he continues his tantrum. "I wₐₛ sᵤpₚₒₛₑd ₜₒ bₑ ₜₕₑ ₐₚeₓ ₚᵣₑdₐₜₒᵣ, ₙoₜ ₛₒₘe ₚₐₜₕₑₜᵢc ₛₗᵤdgₑ fᵣₒₘ ₜₕₑ ᵇoᵗₜₒₘ ₒf ᵗₕₑ fₒₒd cₕaᵢₙ! ᴺᵒᵗ a gˡoʳⁱᶠᵢₑᵈ aₘebₐ! ₙₒₜ ₐ Lᵢvᵢₙg Wₐₗₖᵢₙg MUD PUDDLE!!"

Timothy's body morphs again, his form splattering in twenty different directions and splashing onto several frames and tiles from the walls, ceiling, and floor. He pulls them apart, releasing a robotic arm that reaches down and attempts to attack the two of them. Donnie slides to the side and avoids the robo-arm. Dr. Timothy's tentacle releases from a section of the wall and accidentally tangles around the mechanism, getting stuck inside the gears and causing it to malfunction. The arm swings back and forth, trying to catch Donnie or Dr. Timothy before becoming hopelessly trapped in the glue-like goo that the scientist has become.

"Wₕₐₜ ₕₐᵥₑ yₒᵤ ᵈᵒₙₑ! ᵂₕₐₜ ₕᵃᵛe yoᵤ dₒₙe! Wₕₐₜ ₕₐᵥₑ yᵒu ᵈoₙₑ!" Timothy wails as he flails about the room.

His arms knock loose the devices hanging from the ceiling. They come crashing down, splatting Timothy flat and trapping him momentarily.

"Sorry doc, but this was all you," Donnie states, dodging one of the slimy appendages before tuck and rolling towards the door. "And no offense, but I've had enough slimy tentacle-induced sensory issues for one year, so I'll just see myself out..."

"Yᵒᵤ ₕₐᵥₑ ₜo ₕeˡᵖ ₘₑ!" Timothy screams, reaching out for the ninja in desperation.

"There's nothing I can do for you now, Tim," Donnie scoffs as he picks up the remote from the floor, avoiding Timothy's sludge and slime. "You wanted to be a mutant, so now you're a mutant. Congrats, welcome to the family."

Donnie stares down at the remote and all the little buttons it comes equipped with. He presses one, and the door opens.

"But don't worry. After everything you did to my brother, I won't just leave you here alone to rot..."

Donnie turns to face the mutant man, and gives him a cold smile before pressing every button on the remote.

"You said something about 'monsters flooding in at the push of a button,' right?" Donnie asks, his smile becoming almost like a snarl. "How about I leave you with some company?"

Every trapdoor in the room opens up, and hundreds of glowing red eyes appear from the darkness. The sounds of snarling and growling and howling and yowling starts to fill the enclosure.

"ᴺᵒ… ʸᵒᵘ caₙ'ₜ ₗₑₐᵥₑ ₘe ₗiₖₑ ₜₕiˢ!" Dr. Timothy begs.

"You said you wanted to be a mutant," Donnie sighs, clicking the button to close the door. "You can chill with your own kind now. See how long you last."

"Nᴺᴼ0oₒo0Oᴼ--!!!"

The doors close just as the monsters creep in and pounce for the slime man.

Donnie blinks for a moment before exhaling loudly.

"...Karma... is absolutely insane."

Prev || Next

[thatfanficstuff]

Not About You - 35

Pairing: Damon Salvatore x ofc

Warnings: nope

Lucy woke slowly, blinking against the light in the room. Elijah sat on the edge of the bed beside her one of his hands holding hers. He didn’t bother with the lie of a smile as his gaze moved from her to where Damon sat behind her. “Please give us a moment.”

Damon kissed her temple before getting off the bed. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, baby.”

She nodded but didn’t turn to look at him. She couldn’t stand seeing that defeated expression on his face again.

Damon shut the door behind him as he left and Elijah frowned after him. There was no point in the younger vampire leaving the room if he was just going to stand in the hall. He’d be able to hear everything. Elijah also wasn’t going to ask Damon to get lost in his own home.

Lucy licked her lips and untangled her hand from Elijah’s to reach over and flip on the small box on the nightstand. She turned the volume all the way up and the sound of ocean waves filled the room. Elijah looked at her in surprise. “White noise machine. Works wonders.”

He smiled softly. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He removed a vial of what looked like blood from his pocket and showed it to her.

“What is that?”

“Niklaus’ blood. It is the only known cure for a vampire bitten by a werewolf. If it doesn’t work on you…” he trailed off, unwilling or unable to finish the thought. He cleared his throat. “There are some things you need to be aware of before you drink this.”

She studied him for a moment before nodding once. He wasn’t happy about whatever he needed to tell her.

He sighed and took her hand back in his. “As I’m sure you have gathered, Niklaus can be…difficult. His beginnings were unhappy. Our parents were cruel to him. I failed in protecting him as I should have. He was my younger brother. It was my job and I failed. He has a warped sense of right and wrong. Imagine an abused child with the rage issues of a werewolf and the heightened senses of a vampire. It’s usually not pleasant.”

Pain stabbed through her again and she hissed as she arched her back. Elijah gripped her hand more tightly and brushed her hair from her forehead. Once the wave of agony passed, he took the rag lying on the bedside table and wiped her face down.

“We can discuss this in detail later, right now I will give you the abbreviated version. That blood belongs to my evil hybrid brother but it is the best chance at saving you. I hadn’t talked to my brother since he confessed to dumping our siblings in the ocean. As you know, my intention was to lure him to Mystic falls using the doppelganger as the bait and kill him.” The muscle in his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth and took a breath. “I gave him Elena to save you. I gave him my chance for revenge, but that wasn’t enough for him.”

“What did he want?” she asked when he didn’t continue on his own.

“He gave me the blood with the understanding that if you drink it, you will meet with him when he comes to town and you will owe him three favors of his choosing.”

She blinked in surprise. “So I live, in theory anyway, but I will owe three unspecified favors to the evil Original hybrid?”

“That about sums it up, yes.”

Silence stretched as she thought, considering all the things the hybrid might ask her to do. “You gave him Elena?” Lucy wasn’t certain exactly what that meant. She didn’t care for the girl but wasn’t sure how she felt about someone else’s life being traded for her own.

He shook his head. “In a manner of speaking. I gave him her name and location. It puts him in control of the situation which I don’t care for, but it can’t be helped.”

She took the vial from him and turned it in the light before handing it back. “Being alive and tied to the hybrid is better than being dead. I haven’t been able to keep anything down, though. What if I just throw it back up?”

He hummed. “Damon had mentioned.” He opened his suit jacket and pulled a syringe from the inside pocket. “I came prepared. Let me see the wound.”

He sucked his brother’s blood into the needle before injecting it directly into the bite. She screamed through clenched teeth and he uttered a quiet apology. He laid the needle on the table but kept the neck of the shirt shifted so he could watch see the injury.

At first, Lucy felt nothing but slowly the itching and burning eased. It was almost as if someone spread something cooling over it.

A few moments later, Elijah sighed in relief. “It is healing.” He let go of her shirt and placed his hand on her chin to turn her attention back to him. “How are you feeling?”

She took a deep breath and did a quick mental inventory. “Better.” With a still trembling hand, she reached over and took the glass of water from the nightstand. She took a large swallow, closing her eyes in relief as it cooled her sore throat. When several minutes passed and it didn’t make a reappearance, she threw herself at Elijah and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you, Elijah. Thank you so much.”

He returned her embrace and held her tightly. “You are welcome, little one. Though I fear you won’t be thanking me when you meet my brother.”

“We’ll deal with that when he gets here.” She pulled back to look at him. “Not a word about this to anyone, Elijah. I mean it.”

He nodded his head once. “You have my word.”

Elijah left via the window wanting to avoid the Salvatores’ questions for the time being. Lucy opened the door surprised to find the hallway empty. With a frown, she wiped herself down with a washcloth and changed her clothes not wanting to take the time to shower just yet. She was surprised Damon hadn’t already come back to check on her and wanted to find the reason for it. That meant searching him out, not just calling his name.

As she headed down the stairs and heard raised voices. The brothers were fighting. She headed toward the library as that appeared to be where the voices were coming from.

“It’s John Gilbert, Stefan. He tried to kill me or did we forget that already? He can’t be trusted.”

“I’m not saying he can, but you can’t just kill him,” Stefan tried to reason.

“Why is he here anyway?” Damon sounded more frustrated than angry.

“Caroline said Elena sent for him. He claims to know about the sacrifice. Bonnie found out the Martins are working for Elijah so they’re disregarding everything they were told by Luca. Apparently, Elena was under the impression we would do our best to save her because she’s Caroline’s friend.” Lucy’s lips twitched at the annoyed undertone in Stefan’s voice.

“I can’t talk about this anymore, Stefan. Lucy is upstairs possibly taking her last breath even as we speak. I couldn’t care less about the save Elena squad right now.”

Lucy opened the door just as he said those words and both brothers snapped their heads in her direction. Stefan smiled and Damon’s eyes widened. “Lucy,” he breathed. Then, before she could even take a step into the room, he was in front of her. His hands cradled her head and he looked her over before pressing his lips to hers. He pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around her as he continued kissing her head. “Thank god.”

She looped her arms around his waist. “I’m okay, Day. ‘Lijah fixed me.”

“How?”

“Can’t tell you that. Not yet.”

“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re alright,” Stefan said as he laid a hand on her back and kissed her temple. “I really wasn’t looking forward to having to tell Caroline her bestie was gone.”

“Shut up, Stefan,” Lucy said, her voice muffled against her vampire’s chest. The brothers laughed and Stefan left the room. Damon lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist to keep balanced. She was struck again by how much she loved him.

Whatever the hybrid may ask of her, it was worth it for this.

[skazoo]

wrath of the bride.

↳ hwang hyunjin x reader, minor lee felix x reader

anger is better than tears, better than grief, better than the void that's in your heart. revenge is better.

length. 2k

genre. frankenstein!au??, ANGST. NOT A SINGLE FLUFF BONE IN THIS BAD BOY.

warnings/tags. stockholm syndrome, mental instability, manipulation, mention of death and graphic description of murder, blood, violence, mention of sex, language.

networks. @kflixnet

notes. so... yeah... this is inspired by skz mama performance and kinda by overwatch 2's halloween event don't judge me thank you and i hope you like it <3 (i had this song on repeat while writing)

ALSO please PLEASE read the warnings!!! you should not be following my account if you're a minor exactly bc i work with themes like this SO PLEASE MINORS DNI!

i'm desperate for feedback and i love comments with your opinion!

(cross-posted on ao3 only)

navigation

felix was losing his mind.

no, felix had lost his mind a long time ago.

all these past months he’s felt everything. the doctor’s clinical touch on his feverish skin. examining him, studying him, changing him.

he’s smelled everything. antiseptic, a little bitter, with undertones of the artificial fragrance of the cold liquid he’s been trapped in, and the occasional weak trail of the lover’s perfume. your perfume.

he’s seen everything. the doctor’s silver hair reflecting the blue neon of the laboratory, vials, and syringes, some filled with his blood, others with a bright green liquid, your eyes smiling through the protective goggles in your white lab coat and without shoes on, the doctor’s love for you, his betrothed.

and felix has heard everything, but his favorite sounds are the doctor’s voice when he assured him ‘it’s not gonna hurt’, the giggles you let out that time the doctor got down on one knee and swore unconditional love to his one and only, the sounds of your love echoing in the silent lab that same night.

everything reaches his borderline comatose being, and thanks to his captors he feels alive. loved, valued, taken care of. 

nowadays his mind doesn’t even wander off to them anymore. they couldn’t keep him safe so they can’t make him question things about the doctor or the lover. they are the big bad wolves in sheep’s clothing and they made promises that in the end, they couldn't keep. felix knows the doctor wouldn’t lie to him so everything is fine. he’s safe.

every now and then he remembers how it was before. the entitled beliefs of his friends. the battles they weren’t supposed to fight against enemies they had made up to clear their own conscience, to create the scapegoat. how sad, how uninteresting.

his dazy train of thought is derailed by the doctor's entrance into his kingdom. the queen is not with him, felix notices and wants to ask why but all that escapes his lips is a small bubble of air making its way up the tall container he’s floating in.

the doctor ruffles his silver hair as he puts on his pristine lab coat over a smooth black tuxedo and throws felix a small wave. “hey, just came to run some tests before i go. nothing serious.”

if he could felix would ask ‘where?’ but the doctor seems to be able to read his mind and with a simple shrug he turns to him with an excited grin on his lips. “don’t know if you remember but today is the day.” the man wiggles his hand in front of the glass of the container. “i get to marry her!” a simple silver ring catches the blue neon lights. 

for a second felix is ecstatic. truly. then all darkens and the machines monitoring his vitals start beeping aggressively. “i take that you’re happy for us then.” a small chuckle leaves the doctor's mouth.

but felix just wants to scream, to break the glass and run to him. to warn him, to warn the bride.

everything happens by grotesque coincidence.

the unsuspecting doctor is too focused on the thought of his lover to notice the thin red laser pointing at his temple from the small glass window of the backdoor of the lab.

said lover slowly makes her teasing entrance from the double doors of the underground space where her soon-to-be husband is working.

and everything that was not supposed to happen finds its twisted way into the real world.

the tap of a high heel on the floor. silence. the whistling of a bullet. death. a crash.

the doctor falls lifeless on the ground right as felix’s container gets smashed into million pieces by the same bullet. as the liquid that enveloped his body flows out on the ground taking him with it, felix thinks that he doesn’t like this, gods don’t bend. gods don’t die.

the group of usurpers that he recognizes rush toward him. they whisper sweet reassurances but felix is too concentrated on the fear that has taken him. the anguish, the grief. he’s too concentrated on you.

darkness. when everything you know and love is taken away from you, so harshly, all you think about is anger, hatred, and even revenge. and no one can save you.

the visceral scream you let out is raw, bone-chilling, and is enough to make everyone in the lab freeze. 

everyone’s attention is on you. some of them are scared, some are ready to kill you too, he’s reaching for you in worry while the others keep him away by his arms. 

but the only thing you can see is the only person you’ve ever loved sprawled on the white floor of the lab —of your home— his white coat is stained with the dark blood slowly flowing out of the bullet wound in his head. white lilies peek out of his chest pocket.

“what did you do!? don’t fucking touch me! you killed him!” felix is sobbing with heartbreak and they don’t understand. can’t understand. “y-you killed him! you’re hurting her!”

the buff man on his left tries to calm him down. “lix, you’re safe now, please calm down-”

“she’s hurting and it’s your fault! you killed the doctor and the lover is sad! you will regret this! i will make you regret this!” at this point he’s snarling, foam at the mouth and tears in his eyes.

“what did they do to you?” the man whispers under his breath then turns to another. “chan, what- what do i do? this is not felix, i don’t-”

“make him pass out, we’ll deal with it when we escape this madness.” his order gets drowned by your screams and wails that are still resonating in the closed space of the lab.

“they saved me!” are the last words your creature yells out before the grip of a gun on his temple makes him black out.

the murderers flee your once pristine realm and you’re left alone with him.

your heart has broken into a million pieces and doesn’t beat anymore. it’s dead, still, silent, harboring plans of hungry revenge.

you're a scientist, you know how it all works. first, there’s clinical death. cessation of blood circulation and breathing, the heart stops its regular rhythm, cardiac arrest.

then in four to six minutes, the light of your life will be unsalvageable —biological death— by normal science’s standards. 

you crawl over hyunjin’s body, the white lace dress dips into the pool of blood and absorbs it like a sponge. hyunjin asked you to wear it. he wanted a real wedding with the dress, the cake, the first dance, the honeymoon, married sex. he wanted to give everything he knew you couldn’t even know you wanted. he wanted to make you his bride because he wanted you to know that you deserved to be loved like that even if others thought otherwise.  

it’s still warm, his body. 

you take his head in your hands and hold him close to your body, hoping you can share some of your breath with him, hoping to have him back just by loving him.

but of course, it doesn’t work and so you do what you must, what your husband would have done if he were in your place. what the doctor would have done.

death, grieving, mourning, they’re all commonplace. science is not. logic is rare, and so you dwell on it.

when felix closes his eyes he enters the void. 

he’s floating and he understands who he really is. he knows what’s happened in the past and what’s happening in the present. sometimes he feels like he can see the future as well but maybe that’s just because he’s already decided what to do when he wakes up again. in this state of tranquility and silence he can rationalize all the time he’s spent under the doctor and lover’s careful gaze. or at least he thinks he can.

when he was taken all that time ago he had been scared. 

he doesn’t think he feared you as real people, but as otherworldly beings, superior to everyone and slaves of none, above the concepts of time and space. of life and death. he thought he would be gone by the time you started experimenting on him like he knew you would have, but you were not monsters and you let him keep his mind in your act of immense magnanimity.

you were angels and felix was lucky to have been saved by you.

some part of him felt like a kid playing hide and seek, afraid of being found. his seekers were just that close and he wanted to, he had to scream out and let them know where he was. the fear and tension were so overwhelming that anything was better than the suspense of hiding.  

his life had been disrupted, it had even been threatened to be lost. but he’d joined the threat and he was no longer at risk. he’d become the monster and the monster was no longer scary. the tension had broken. the brain had accepted it as an epiphany, a victory. aha! this is truth! this is purpose!

he knows that most people live pretty mediocre lives. pathetic. him included. fighting a war against the ambitions of others —the doctor’s ambitions— with his naive group of friends. normal people study. they work to pay bills, to survive in this wretched world, and suddenly they’re caught up with people who do things for reasons. the doctor and the lover. they have drive. they have purpose. the smallest act has meaning. these people are doing real things which they believe are worth living for and dying for, and they scare everyone else. 

seven months ago he was afraid of losing his busy and pointless life, now he knows what someone who will gladly die for a cause looks like and he loves it. he admires and wants to protect your angelic minds. he will protect you.

like a lever being pulled, felix's resolve strengthens and his eyes snap open, an imperceptible green glow clouds his iris.

the others have formed a messy semicircle around him as if to keep him away from anything coming from the hole in the rundown shack they’ve chosen to rest in. as if to stop the lover to look for him if she ever decides to. they can’t. no one can if she chooses to take them to their personal hell, felix knows it and smiles.

everyone is sleeping, some more soundly than others. changbin’s hand is preventively resting on the handle of the gun in his pants and every now and then chan tightens his fingers on the knife under the makeshift pillow he’s lying on.

felix walks around his captors like a knight would walk around the enemy lines and in this delicate situation, he really feels like one. a knight in shining armor who faces dangers and monsters only to return to his queen because he owes his life to the crown.

with this in mind the first throat he slits with the piece of glass found in the shack is emancipating. jisung’s eyes widen and he can see the life drain from his body.

the second and the third are silent. seungmin and jeongin die clawing at felix’s hands, foam at their mouths, fear in their faces.

minho manages to live a few seconds longer because felix doesn’t make a clean cut. his blood gurgles in his throat and paints felix’s hands red.

changbin dies loudly just as he’s lived. the gunshot of his own gun echoes through the room and wakes the last of them.

chan looks around in grief. he wants to kill him, felix knows and opens his arms to invite him in.

poor chan, no one told him to not bring a knife to a gunfight.

he thumps to the ground, a bullet hole that matches the doctor’s.

felix smiles and turns to the door. a pale moon shines on his green eyes as he makes his way to you. after all, he’s sure you’ll need help bringing your doctor back from the dead.

[toodleoorblx]

I've Found You, I'm Bound to You

Agatha Harkness x Wanda Maximoff

Word count: 4,658

Summary: Wanda sees a lot of books, and trains.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 -/?

Warnings: violence, cursing, violence, mentions of death

A/N: Enjoy!!

Chapter 1 -How to Tame Your Agatha

Wanda wakes up in a heap of blood, a sight that has become disturbingly routine. 

After switching her bed set, she takes a quick but thorough shower. Wanda steps out, the steam billowing around her as she wraps herself in a soft towel. She wipes the foggy mirror, staring at her reflection for a moment. Her eyes look tired, shadows of sleepless nights lingering beneath them. She shakes her head, pushing away the self-pity.

She goes through her usual morning routine with meticulous care. Brushing her teeth, combing her hair, and applying a light layer of moisturizer to her pale skin. Every step is methodical, almost mechanical, a way to ground herself in the present. She dries her hair, letting it fall naturally around her shoulders.

Wanda dresses in a plain pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt, the simplicity a comfort. She feels more herself in these clothes, less like the Scarlet Witch and more like the woman she used to be. She adds a simple silver necklace, the chain cool against her skin.

Her eyes drift to her nightstand, where a small collection of costume jewelry rings sit untouched. She hasn't worn them in years. Each one holds memories—some good, but most painful. Her fingers hover over the rings, hesitating. She doesn’t want to remember the bad days, the days filled with anxiety and pain. But she does want to remember Pietro, the days when he was alive and they were just two kids trying to survive in a world that didn't care.

With a deep breath, she picks up a ring with a small blue stone embedded in it. It's simple, but meaningful. Pietro had given it to her on their sixteenth birthday, a rare moment of joy in their tumultuous lives. They were still at HYDRA, he had stolen it from an unsuspecting nurse, with his superspeed. She slides the ring onto her finger, the cool metal a reminder of her brother's presence. It's a step, a small one, but significant. She’s acknowledging the past without letting it consume her.

With a heavy sigh, she heads downstairs to the kitchen. The prospect of coffee, something she once despised, now feels like a lifeline. Her body craves any source of energy it can find, as natural vitality seems to have deserted her months ago.

Leaning against the counter, she waits for the coffee to brew. The soft hum of the machine is almost soothing, almost enough to lull her back to sleep. Almost.

“Wandaaaaa!” The sudden, drawn-out call shatters the quiet, making Wanda jump. Her heart flips, and she’s instantly pulled from her drowsy state. She groans inwardly, having forgotten about the older woman's presence. Rubbing her eyes, she teleports to Agatha’s room.

Upon arrival, Wanda finds Agatha already dressed and ready for the day. Her hair is swept up into a neat bun, a few strands loose, and she’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow blouse tucked in neatly. The room, once sparse and utilitarian, is now nearly fully decorated and situated. Agatha has transformed it into a space that reflects her unique style.

Lanterns and candles are scattered around, casting a warm, flickering light. The scent of herbs and incense fills the air, creating an ambiance that is both mystical and comforting. On her desk, next to an array of magical trinkets and vials that look either poisonous or radioactive, sits Señor Scratchy in his cage, observing the room with twitching whiskers.

Agatha’s bed is covered with a black comforter set, contrasting with the intricate runes drawn on every wall in marker. Wanda wonders if the runes still hold their power when written in such a mundane medium. Behind her back, the younger woman tries to use some of her magic to make an orb, but it doesn't activate. 

She’ll speak with Agatha about that later. The room is filled with various objects, each one exuding an aura of ancient magic and danger.

Another thing Wanda notices is the inhuman amount of books scattered messily all over the room. Towers of books are everywhere, far more than she remembers bringing with them.

What…?

“Agatha… I know you have your light reading but what the hell? Where did all these books come from?” Wanda asks annoyedly, without looking at her, her eyes fixed on a book titled How to Tame Your Banshee. She doesn't even want to know. “And why are there runes drawn on my wall?”

Agatha crosses her arms and “It's to keep little Scarlet Bitches like you at bay.” the older woman inclines her head towards her pet. “And Scratchy has a bottomless stomach, so he can transport things without needing any magic. I may have underestimated how much room this place has. Oops.”

Wanda suppouses she’ll give Agatha that, the security of having a space where she can’t use her magic. The younger woman tilts her head, putting her hands on her hips, eyeing Agatha’s pet with caution. “I… I don't think I want a magical rodent in my home…”

Agatha scoffs, putting a hand on her chest, giving Wanda a look. “First of all my familiar, is not a rodent, you crude fuck, and second, he's mostly docile when he knows I’m safe.”

Wanda squints and eyes her familiar, “Mostly…?”

Agatha waves her off, “Anyways, I need something for my grimoires, an open space where I can continue my studies. This room is far too small.”

Wanda crosses her arms, “That's a nice thought, but I still don't understand where you're getting at.”

Agatha smirks. “I could… oh, I don’t know…” She leans casually against her desk. “Use an office?”

Wanda tilts her head, her expression skeptical. “And what have you done to earn such a thing besides making me hate you all over again?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, "Hold your horses, Wands. I don’t think it’s a matter of what I ‘deserve,’” Agatha says, using air quotes with a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’s a simple request. Hell, consider it a condition of me training you.”

Wanda gapes, feeling a mix of frustration and irritation. She really doesn’t want to be Agatha’s personal superstore, but she’s tired and doesn’t feel like arguing. “Fine, whatever. Just don’t bother me with this.”

Agatha’s smirk widens, and she pushes off the desk to stand fully upright. “Good girl,” Wanda feels a shiver down her spine. “Now, get to work, after, we need breakfast.”

Wanda mutters a curse in Sokovian under her breath, but compiles.

__

Wanda finally finishes setting up Agatha's office. The room is now spacious, with plenty of shelving for Agatha's vast collection of texts. She has arranged the books in a way that makes the room feel like a mini-library, each shelf brimming with volumes of ancient knowledge and forbidden spells. There’s a small pen for Agatha’s familiar, Scratchy, who eyes Wanda warily from his new enclosure. A Victorian-style desk takes center stage, its surface polished and ready for use.  There's a table closer to the bookshelves that's filled with herbs, empty jars, and empty vials. Gardening supplies are neatly organized in one corner, ready for Agatha's use. Wanda has laid down several rich, patterned rugs, adding a touch of warmth and comfort to the space.

Lanterns and candles are scattered throughout the room, casting a soft, flickering light that gives the office an almost magical glow. Vines and an abundance of plants add a touch of green, creating a serene atmosphere. 

Maybe she had a little too much fun decorating…

“All done, have fun with  your evil lair, Harkness.” Wanda flashes a passive-aggressive smile the older woman's way.

“Oh I will have lots of fun with this…” Agatha looks satisfied, Wanda doesn't know why she feels so good about that.

__

After a brief argument about whether or not the room should have a lock, Wanda ultimately wins, threatening to revert Agatha back to her “Agnes” persona if she doesn’t comply. Agatha, though annoyed, concedes.

With a flick of her wrist, Wanda teleports some of Agatha’s belongings into the newly created office and leaves Agatha to her devices.

Wanda is in her kitchen, meticulously preparing breakfast by hand. She prefers to do domestic tasks without magic; it keeps her human, she feels like. As she works, she chops vegetables, cracks eggs, and stirs batter, the rhythmic motions helping to calm her mind. The kitchen is filled with the comforting sounds of cooking: the sizzle of eggs hitting the pan, the gentle hum of the coffee maker, the occasional clink of utensils.

Her thoughts drift to her sons. Wanda doesn’t want to use too much magic around them; she’s terrified of accidentally hurting them. She’s always been cautious, but after everything that’s happened, her fear has intensified. She wants them to have as normal a life as possible, free from the chaos that magic can bring.

As she flips pancakes, she catches a glimpse of a family photo on the counter. Her heart aches at the sight of it. She takes a deep breath, pushing the painful thoughts aside. Today, she’ll focus on the little things. She’ll make breakfast, enjoy the moment, and keep moving forward.

The younger woman places her plate of food carefully, and pours herself a cup of coffee. She leans against the counter, savoring the moment of peace. Despite everything, there’s a sense of normalcy in these small routines. And for now, that’s enough.

Soon Agatha comes strutting into the kitchen, Señor Scratchy in tow. Her hair is down now, she has a little makeup on. 

She sets her familiar on the counter while she grabs a plate to help herself. “I didn't know war babies could cook,” Agatha says with a faux shocked expression as she makes her way to the kitchen island to take a seat.

Wanda shoots her a sneer while she takes another bite of her pancake. “Careful, Harkness.” Wanda snarks, her accent more prominent.

Agatha raises her hands up defensively, “What? I'm just saying, you surprised me. Because believe me, I was certain you would have had a panic attack over how long to boil eggs.” Agatha retorts as she takes a bite of her salad and gives a piece to Senor Scratchy.

Wanda sighs as she chugs down some of her scorching coffee, it burns down her throat, waking her up with familiar twinges of pain. “And believe me when I say you will be surprised when your sorry ass is in Antarctica in the next five seconds.” Wanda snarls. She's already sick of Agatha's meaningless jabs. She'll have to put up with it for some time though. She has no rough layout as to how long this will take. Even though she wants to strangle Agatha, deep down, she has faith in her.

Very, very very deep down.

“My my, new threats? Oh how you have bettered yourself, red. Congratulations.” Agatha says dryly as she sips some coffee.

They both fall silent, with the occasional clicking of their forks, the nibbles of her familiar, and the clicking of their glasses hitting the counter. Wanda is about to ask Agatha about Senor Scratchy but Agatha beats her to it.

“I think we're done here. We won't be getting anything done by sitting around all day, let's get moving, sweetcheeks.” Agatha says briefly as she scoops up her dirty dishes and plops them in the sink, her familiar hopping on her shoulder, tucking himself comfortably under her locks. Agatha leans casually against the kitsch sink.

“What do I need to do?”

“First, you can change into your Scarlet Bitch costume,” Agatha says, gesturing lazily at Wanda.

Wanda rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Fine.”

She stands up hesitantly. Transforming into her Scarlet Witch attire is a process that makes her feel focused and powerful, but it’s also exhausting. Especially now, when her energy is significantly depleted. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to maintain the state without it draining her completely.

Wanda closes her eyes and sighs deeply, trying to focus. Agatha takes a seat on the island counter, examining Wanda closely. Her familiar sits on her shoulder, watching with what might be more hope than Agatha herself possesses. 

Which probably isn’t much to begin with…

Wanda can see her in her in mind. Almost like looking through a distorted mirror. Her strongest form. The Scarlet Witch is so different from herself that it’s almost like looking at another person. The Scarlet Witch exudes confidence in her power and judgment, a confidence Wanda currently lacks. Her hair flows as if it has a life of its own, every strand imbued with magic. Her eyes blaze red like fire, her spirit as unyielding as a storm. Her fingers are dark as tar, a feature Wanda shares, but the Scarlet Witch wears them as a badge of her power, not a mark of a curse. It's frightening that she must embody her. She carries herself with an assurance that she can do anything and still know exactly where she stands in the world.

Wanda isn’t sure of much these days, much less herself.

To reach out to the Scarlet Witch within her, Wanda must align her mindset with that of her alter ego, or at least somewhat. It’s like tuning into the same frequency, a task that is incredibly taxing. Wanda is in no mental state to be someone as stable and powerful as the Scarlet Witch, but she will try. Even when she finds her sons, she doubts she can ever be as stable as she once was, before everything fell apart—before the bomb that started the avalanche some call her life.

Wanda breathes deeply, trying to center herself. She pushes past the exhaustion, the self-doubt, the fear. She focuses on the strength, the power, the unyielding will of the Scarlet Witch. Slowly, she feels the transformation begin. Her clothes shift, morphing into her iconic attire. The weight of the headpiece settles on her forehead, her hair flows freely, and her eyes ignite with a crimson glow. The younger woman feels a little lighter, less weighed down physically. 

Agatha watches with an almost bored expression, but there’s a glint of something in her eyes. “Finally,” she mutters, more to herself than to Wanda.

Wanda opens her eyes, now fully transformed into the Scarlet Witch. Wanda notices that her attire has changed a little, the last time she saw her alter ego… or rather, embodied her, was back at Westview, and when she first arrived at her cabin. That was months ago. Now she feels… more knowing? Corrupt? She feels magically stronger. The room feels different, charged with the energy emanating from her. She feels the power coursing through her veins, the focus sharp and clear. Yet, she also feels the drain, the toll it takes on her already exhausted body.

Agatha hops off the counter and begins to circle Wanda like a vulture eyeing its next meal. Her eyes drink Wanda in, assessing her with a critical gaze. Her lips are pursed in deep thought as she scrutinizes every inch of Wanda’s form.

Agatha hums, her arms crossed. “Stand up straighter, shoulders back. You’re not a frightened puppy; you’re a supernatural entity that can destroy the fucking world. Act like it, for the gods' sakes.” She groans in annoyance and gives a tap to Wanda’s shoulder, prompting the younger woman to fix her posture.

“Stand directly in front of the door. But keep a good distance,” Agatha commands, her tone brooking no argument.

Wanda tilts her head in confusion. “What…?”

“Just do it, toots.”

Wanda’s gaze lingers on Agatha for a second longer before she concedes and does as instructed. Agatha pads to the front door and swings it open, revealing the river just outside the cabin. The brisk breeze wafts in, causing Agatha to shiver slightly.

Wanda, however, doesn't feel the cold. In this form, it seems she’s not susceptible to temperature changes. Interesting.

“So, how good would you say your aim accuracy is?” Agatha asks, shoving her hands in her pockets.

Wanda blinks, considering the question. Her accuracy has always been more intuitive than precise. “I'd say it’s decent enough. I normally just size my attacks up so I have a lesser chance of missing. It works.” She shrugs, her voice tinged with pride. “My targets were always moving quickly, and I didn’t exactly have an expert teaching me at the time. So I just made it harder to miss.”

Agatha tuts at her, waving her off with an exasperated sigh. “That’s… utterly lazy. We’ll be working on that. But anyways, you can start by focusing your energy into your core. It will get your magic stable inside you so that when you summon it, it will be ready for use rather than accumulating as you summon it.”

Wanda scoffs and shakes her head lightly but concedes. She closes her eyes, focusing on the magic in her gut. It starts off small at first, like dust slowly gaining form. It pools in her stomach, thrashing and flowing, unpredictable even for her. She wonders if it will always be like this. Unpredictable. She feels it fill her gut and begin to spill into the veins of her arms and legs, almost like a built-in brace. It hums beneath her fair skin, waiting to be called upon.

“Good girl,” she hears Agatha’s voice right behind her ear. Wanda squeals, jumping a little and grabbing onto the island counter. She nearly falls when the area she grabbed breaks off in her hand. Wanda stares in fear at the slab of the counter in her palm.

Did she just break the counter with her bare hands?

She glares at Agatha with confusion. Agatha only smirks at her knowingly. “And you were doing so well too. Shame you couldn't keep your composure, dear.”

“What just—” Wanda starts, her cheeks flushed as she stands straighter, placing the broken counter piece in the trash.

“Your magic is in your veins, it's idle there, unmoving until called for. It's not actively being used. So it's acting as a brace, strengthening your limbs if you weren't such a clutz you… why are you looking at me like that?” Agatha inquires as she walks over to Señor Scratchy, who is sitting by the sink. She gives him a few head scratches, then meets Wanda’s concerned gaze.

Wanda narrows her eyes, a mix of curiosity and suspicion flickering in them. “How do you know all this?”

Agatha snorts, a smirk playing on her lips. “I read all about you, sweetheart. Plus, your magic isn’t much different than my own.”

Wanda’s eyes widen slightly, a glimmer of hope and interest brightening her expression. “Really?”

“Yes,” Agatha replies, leaning against the counter. “Not on a power level, but more on a fundamental level.” The older woman rolls her eyes. “My magic is originally based on natural magic, then enhanced by dark magic. Take a wild guess which magic is most like yours.”

“Dark magic,”

“Bingo,” Agatha responds with a curt nod. “Your magic was enhanced by the Mind Stone. Dark magic is unpredictable and wild, it's more dangerous, but with the centuries of knowledge I have, it's manageable.”

Wanda’s mind races as she processes Agatha’s words. The idea that her magic, with all its unpredictability and raw power, could be harnessed and controlled like Agatha's is both thrilling and daunting. She takes a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with the older witch, she doesn't know if she likes it.

“How did you learn to control it?” Wanda asks, her voice soft but filled with curiosity.

Agatha shrugs, her demeanor surprisingly open. “Centuries of practice, trial and error, and a lot of patience. But the key is understanding the nature of your magic. Embrace it, don’t fight it. Once you accept it as part of you, controlling it becomes second nature.”

Her magic often feels like a wild animal she must tame, a beast she can barely control. It’s not ideal, but it's the power that will save her sons.

“What else do you want me to do exactly?” she asks, reprising her spot a few feet from the front door. She cracks her knuckles, a mix of nerves and determination coursing through her.

Agatha trails behind her, standing close—too close. Wanda can feel Agatha's presence, almost hearing her breathe. She doesn't comment on the proximity, instead turning to focus on the task at hand.

“Continue gathering your magic in your gut,” Agatha instructs, her tone firm but not unkind. “Then, I want to see how well you can aim your magic directly out of the door. Without collateral damage.”

Wanda nods slowly. That should be easy, right? But the intensity of Agatha’s watchful gaze makes her heart race. She closes her eyes, recounting her steps. She feels the magic gathering, its thrashing becoming more violent, more rushed. It spills into her limbs, scorching every vein. She feels it grow stronger, then suddenly her body starts shaking violently.

Cold hands clutch her arms and then her waist tightly before her eyes snap open. The entirety of her eyes glows a deep scarlet mixed with black, emitting a trail of magic. She barely has time to register the transformation before a loud, blinding ray of chaos magic erupts from her stomach.

The blast doesn’t harm her, but the sheer force of it demolishes the front of her cabin, leaving scorched and still smoldering wood in its wake. Wanda's arms and legs feel like they're on fire, her stomach hollow as if that last attack drained all her strength. The impact knocks her back, and she falls hard. She doesn't feel the pain from the fall, only the overwhelming emptiness and exhaustion.

As Wanda gasps, her ears ring loudly, and she can feel her blood pumping in her head. She realizes her back is against something warm. Wanda groans as she finds the willpower to slightly lift herself up and flip over. Blinking a few times, her vision still slightly impaired, it soon clears enough for her to see Agatha lying beneath her, eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar.

She hurt someone. Again. She lost control. Again.

Wanda sucks in a shaky breath as she moves the strands of white hair from Agatha’s face. Agatha looks peaceful, almost… serene? But the worry gnaws at Wanda's mind. What if she caused irreversible damage to the older woman's head? What if Agatha is seriously hurt?

Taking a deep breath, Wanda presses her ear to Agatha’s chest. She waits, each second stretching into what feels like an eternity, until she hears a faint but steady heartbeat.

Relief floods through her, and she slouches over Agatha. If Agatha were dead, her hopes of saving her sons and finding her own happiness would die with her. As she sits there, she feels an inexplicable amount of regret.

Wanda decides to ignore the thought of Agatha dying as she hears Agatha groan and shift under her. Her eyes are fixed intently on Agatha’s face, watching every small movement. A pain-filled sneer appears on the older woman's face as she slowly begins to open her blue eyes.

Agatha blinks lazily a few times, her expression gradually changing from disoriented to focused. She slowly turns her head and meets Wanda's concerned green eyes.

“Wanda?” Agatha asks, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice is softer, kinder, nothing like Agatha.

Wanda sighs, a mixture of relief and guilt washing over her. “Yeah, yeah, it’s me.”

After a few moments of staring at each other, Agatha's face twists into one of anger as clarity returns. She shoots up angrily, almost knocking Wanda to the floor, Wanda squirms to stand up, her body still pretty weak. Agatha stumbles, leaning against the counter, she’s probably weak as well.

“How the fuck did you manage do that? All I asked was for you to channel it, not try to exact your renege on the fucking place!” Agatha practically yells, rubbing her face. She starts glancing around frantically, likely in search of Senor Scratchy.

Wanda stammers, guilt tightening in her gut. “I—I didn't know—it was an accident! I lost control!” She takes her crown off, staring at it with dismay.

“Yeah, the fuck you did! I knew you needed help, but this—” Agatha laughs mirthlessly. “This is fucked. You’re fucked, Wanda!” she runs her hands through impossibly and beautifully  messy hair.

At this point, Wanda can feel wetness on her flushed cheeks. She sniffles, aggressively wiping her tears as she bites her lip. “For a second I had it under control—”

Agatha gestures wildly to the destroyed wall. “You call this ‘under control’?! We could have died if I hadn’t pulled us away!” Agatha raises her voice some more, something tells Wanda that something is off with Agatha, something more than just her almost dying.

Wanda feels so, so weak. She lost control, and now she has to face the consequences. She doesn't understand why Agatha’s words affect her so deeply. Maybe it's because there's an undeniable truth lining every word. Maybe it's because she got to see how much of a danger she is again.

“I... I know. I'm sorry! I—I don't know what happened. One minute I was doing fine, then the next...” Wanda gazes wordlessly at the scorched wall, her eyes filled with sorrow and regret.

What if she was in a populated area? What death would have followed?

Agatha groans, her face etched with fury as she stalks up to Wanda, their chests almost touching. “You can't do anything right can you, hot shot?! It's like you don't even want to see your scarlet spawn!”

Everything falls silent. At least, it does for Wanda. The only sound is Agatha’s heavy, angry breathing. Wanda stares into Agatha’s livid eyes, and then realization sets in. Agatha clenches her jaw and fists, aware of the weight of her words.

…What did she just say?...

Something inside Wanda switches, like a light turning on, she feels utter rage and sadness. Her irises glow a dangerous red, unshed tears brimming in her eyes, her magic making them shimmer. Her hair begins to flow as if caught in an ethereal breeze. She stalks closer to Agatha, who suddenly looks pained. Agatha’s face turns a shade of purple as she claws at her throat, gasping for air, as if invisible hands are squeezing it. She stumbles back, hitting the counter, still struggling to breathe.

Wanda moves closer until their chests almost touch. “Don’t... Don’t you ever doubt my love and devotion to my children. I would fucking kill and die for them. You have no idea what it's like.” Wanda states, emotion etched into every syllable. Wanda releases her grip, and Agatha collapses in front of her, coughing and gasping for air, gripping the counter for support. She looks up at Wanda, with rage and... fear?

“You don't know what I know,” Agatha manages to say between coughs.

“I don't want to. I don't want to know what goes on in that sick mind of yours..” Wanda’s voice is calm but firm, tears still fall from her eyes. She raises her hand lazily, and the destroyed wall begins to repair itself, the pieces of scorched wood reassembling and restoring the cabin to its previous state. She gives Agatha one last assessing glare. The younger woman  teleports away.

__

Wanda reappears in her bedroom, her heart still pounding with adrenaline and rage. She collapses onto her bed, her body trembling. She had lost control again, but this time it wasn’t just power—it was pure, unfiltered emotion. She clutches her pillow, tears streaming down her face.

She hurt Agatha on purpose… but it didn't completely feel like her. Yes, it was her rage, but… something was off.

[lanymme]

Alright, first fill here.

The prompt, from a friend: Doctor doing gardening with Perfumer and Myrrh.

It’s not 100% on prompt but:

— — — — —

“Oh, good. Thank you for being punctual.” Perfumer smiles at her: faintly, warm, in the way she has when she’s busy thinking about something else but spares some of her attention for kindness.

“Ah, um, of course. I got your message.” Myrrh places the rack of fragrance vials she’d been carrying on the table where her mentor is setting up the diffuser. After more than six months of working here, her natural awkward has been overcome, at least in this moment, by the familiarity of the task before her. They go through this routine nearly every other day, whenever someone has a medically scheduled trip to the Garden, and it’s been at least a month since Myrrh has dropped something during this part of her duties.

35 days, actually. But who’s counting.

They’re in one of the small, simple gazebos that dot the convalescence garden: pretty, fragrant cedar wood, its open top forming a kind of trellis that has long been home to a dense tangle of plants so that it fits seamlessly with the rest of the garden. Perfumer told her she designed it that way for a sense of continuity and to bring nature closer to the Garden’s guests, even as the enclosure provides some necessary security to those that need it.

“Is there… a large group today? … ah, here.” She hands the lavender to Perfumer, who places it into the device. No Originium in their diffusers—they’re mechanical, Victorian. She doesn’t allow Originium devices to be part of the garden.

“No. Just one this time.”

She appreciates that Perfumer sends her messages informing her ahead of time if something is going to deviate from the routine. It’s one of many things Perfumer does to put the nervous systems of the people around her at ease, and Myrrh admires it deeply.

Perfumer slots the rack with the aroma stone on it into the machine with a final click. With a ratcheting whirr, it readjusts itself before stopping. Satisfied, she turns to Myrrh.

“There we are. Our guest today will be the Doctor, so I thought I would let you know ahead of time.” She keeps her eyes on Myrrh’s chin—another little demonstration of care. “Myrrh, could you please take charge of this guest? I think this is an excellent opportunity for you.”

She feels a spike of anxiety shoot through her. Someone so high-ranking… her? A trainee? She starts to wring her fingers together. “Um, I think—”

Perfumer is looking at her—kind, soothing, but firm, a little bit of the unflinching steel that lies below her velvet bearing letting itself be known.

“Myrrh, I would really like you to try. I’ll be right here, and you can ask me to help with any part of the process. If it comes to it, and you need me to take over, I can do that too.”

They’ve talked about this kind of thing before. She needs help to push things outside of her comfort zone. And… she trusts Perfumer. Lena.

“…Okay. Yeah. I’ll… yeah, I’ll do it.”

They both sit around the table. The sun coming through the dome is golden in the late afternoon, and the sound of the birds, the cool moisture of plant life, slowly helps her ease her nerves.

Perfumer had once told her that people can only maintain the same emotional state for about twenty minutes before the body shifts into a new state, and she takes it as a comfort to her nerves. She checks her tablet, and sees there’s about fifteen minutes left until the appointment.

She looks at Perfumer, who winks at her, knowingly.

She’s… so blessed to work here.

— — —

Right on schedule, they both receive the little chime from their tablets that someone with an appointment has entered the garden, and Myrrh presses the start button on the diffuser.

She swallows. She feels less jittery than before but…

A minute later, motion through the trees, the sound of moving cloth, and then the person comes around the corner.

The Doctor wears the same large Rhodes Island coat they always wear, the same featureless visor underneath. No skin is exposed.

She’s heard so many whispers about them that she doesn’t really know what to believe. But she knows they’re a genius tactician and researcher, that Dr. Kal’tsit refuses to talk about, and most of all she knows they way, way outrank her.

She stand up abruptly. “Oh! Welcome to the, to the… Convalescence Garden,” she finishes, lamely. She takes a hesitant step forward, and then pushes herself past the point of hesitation to walk out and meet them.

She can hear her blood in her ears as she approaches. Her mouth is dry. She doesn’t want to be here.

“Hello,” they say, in a soft, dry voice. “You’re… Myrrh, right? Thank you for your hard work. We’ve been able to forage more for medical resources, which cuts down on expenses and… anyway, yes. It’s been very helpful.”

“Hi! I’m… oh, I mean, you already know that… thank you! Sorry, um, can I take your jacket for? Do you…” She trails off, uncertain what she was about to say. “Sorry…”

Alarm bells are going off in her head, she’s messing everything up, she’s just not cut out for working with patients—

The Doctor tilts their head, gently. “Thank you for being so considerate of me. I’ll keep it on, but I really do appreciate the offer.” She can’t see an expression through their mask, but their voice is kind.

“Oh, okay! So…” she gestures toward the gazebo, and the Doctor nods, and starts walking.

Flustered as she is, focused on her own self, it’s only when she follows alongside the Doctor that she notices how slowly they walk. One step at a time—trudging, almost. Not stuff or uneven with injury, but measured, heavy. Their voice… they’re not old, though.

They reach the gazebo together.

“Perfumer. It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Doctor. How have you been?”

“Ahhh,” they say. “That’s a good question.”

Myrrh offers a chair, and they thank her.

Then they start to sit down, and Myrrh understands.

A sharp breath in, and then they lower themself down and back, breath tight, into the seat. When they make contact, they lie their back gingerly against the seat, and with a shudder of breath let out a bone-deep sigh. The tension isn’t gone, but they’re… settled.

Pain. They’re in terrible pain, she realizes, all of a sudden.

“It’s been a difficult day,” they say, weary, “to keep up appearances.”

And then it clicks.

“You don’t have to do any of that kind of thing here,” Myrrh finds herself saying. “It’s important that you express how you’re feeling so we can help you better. Are you alright if I adjust the blend? A little more Bennien’s Breath?”

“Ah. That sounds… lovely.”

“Of course.”

She goes to the back of the machine to adjust the dials. And she feels bold enough to try something else.

“While you relax, would like to see some of the new plants I’m experimenting with? I can tell you about my research if you’re interested.

“I think I would like that very much.”

Myrrh smiles. She catches the eye of her mentor.

Perfumer smiles back at her, proud, and she feels warm inside, happy, tapping the back of her thumb rhythmically against her hip to help the feeling and the understanding suffuse through her. She gets it.

This is the Convalescence Garden. And anyone that enters, no matter who they are, is her patient.

[fanatichistory]

Scene Prompt 19 pt 5

Part 1 Part2 Part 3 Part 4

This one is full of medical/lab whump! Next part is going to have more of Whumper in it ;D Enjoy!

(Should I give the team names at all? Like Dr. Nova has a name...kinda tempted to name the team members...)

CW: Medical whump, multiple whumpees, needles

Teammate One continued to scream and thrash against the restraints holding them to the gurney. It felt as if their blood was on fire and their skin was peeling off.

The soldiers wheeling them through the hallway were glancing uncomfortably at each other every now and again with Whumper taking up the rear.

"In here." Whumper directed, pointing to the room just ahead.

As they all entered single file through the door, the gurney wheeled between the two soldiers, Dr. Nova looked up from his microscope at the counter and turned to greet them.

"Ah, I see Teammate One is experiencing the enemy's serum…good, good. Place them there." He indicated the open space in front of the monitor and machines.

As the soldiers deposited the gurney with the still screaming and thrashing Teammate One, Whumper stepped up to Dr. Nova and handed over the dart gun.

"For the posterity of your work, you should know that they have two shots in their system. The first one didn't seem to be working effectively. That, or they just tolerated the pain a little to well."

"I saw." Dr. Nova indicated the security feed of the holding cells on his computer. "You simply did not give enough time for it to kick in is all." He drolled, though his tone held the faintest reprimand in it.

Whumper shrugged with an apologetic smile. "I'll leave you to your work, then, Doctor."

Truth be told Teammate One's screams, which hadn't let up yet, were beginning to grate on his ears. Not that Whumper didn't mind screaming in general, but it had already been several minutes now and he was bored.

Dr. Nova merely nodded as they injected something into Whumpee's Iv bag and walked across the large room, picking up the clipboard with Teammate One's notes from his desk, and began looking them over.

Teammate panted heavily, their eyes casting wildly about, their blood still on fire and their skin still feeling like it was peeling off their body layer by layer. Their throat was hoarse as they continued to scream out in agony.

"Yes…they truly manipulated my serum to be absolutely incapacitating…Tell me, what does it feel like?" Dr. Nova gently placed two fingers on Teammate One's pulse to assure themselves that it matched the monitor reading.

"F-f-fire!"

"Interesting. I don't know whether to be impressed by their science division or insulted that my version of the serum was inadequate in some way." They mused mostly to themselves as they scribbled on the clipboard before going to the wall that housed a metal storage rack full of various vials and bottles and chemicals.

Plucking a small bottle from the middle shelf, taking next a few empty vials, Dr. Nova turned to the counter, opening a drawer and pulling out two clean syringes and removed one from the packaging. Their pace was unhurried despite Teammate One's obvious pain and they seemed rather unbothered by the continual screaming.

"This should counter it's effects, but first I need to draw some blood before I can administer it." Placing the instruments on a metal tray, he walked over to where the rolling cart was sitting and placed it on top.

Wheeling it over to their bedside, he picked up the needle and tapped with a finger to find a decent enough vein in their arm.

Teammate One's continued thrashing made it rather difficult, even with the restraints in place, but after a few minutes Dr. Nova was sure he was able to stick the vein as he quietly went about filling up the empty vials with his blood samples.

"Alright, hush now, I probably should have worn ear plugs for this." He mused as he prepared the antidote to the enemy's serum. Hopefully, it worked.

Jabbing it into their bicep he began cleaning up the tray and placing everything back in it's proper place, disposing of the packaging, and placing the blood samples on the counter next to the microscope for further inspection.

Teammate One began to slowly quiet down as the antidote started to take effect. The fire in their veins was beginning to cool finally.

Dr. Nova stood next to their bedside now that the screaming had stopped and they had begun to openly cry. "Walk me through the experience, Teammate One, what did it feel like? Use your words now."

They looked up tiredly, thoroughly exhausted and wanting nothing more than to sleep. But it still felt as if their skin was peeling off, itchy and uncomfortable to a degree they couldn't even begin to describe and it left them in tears.

"Teammate One…speak."

"The f-fire in my veins is-is gone now…" Dr. Nova began to write on the clipboard, shoving their glasses up the nose when it slid down.

"But?"

"My s-skin…it feels wrong. L-Like being peeled…layer by layer." They answered between sobs, their eyes pleading for relief.

"Intriguing to say the least." He responded as he finished his notes, leaving Teammate One as they were. Preparing a slide with a blood sample, he sat at the microscope and raised his glasses to the top of his head to sit out of the way and he leaned over to peer through the lens.

A heartbeat or two go by, Teammate One residing themselves to the fact that their skin with never be comfortable or feel this agonizing from now on as a side effect of the experiment under way.

"My serum was indeed vastly inadequate…this combination of components is markedly inspiring…" Dr. Nova mused, wonder and jealousy lacing his tone as he flicked to different magnifications. "I wonder who concocted this."

Across the room, Whumpee's monitor gave a single beep, alerting Dr. Nova that there was a slight change in rhythm.

It also drew Teammate One's attention as well as he got up to check the machines and make note of the change on the clipboard at the foot of Whumpee's bed.

Whumpee was still injured severely from the other day when Whumper had 'interrogated' them, leaving them multiple broken bones including their ribs, both their legs and one of their arms. It wasn't until after the base was taken over that the team found out that Dr. Nova had requested the broken bones in particular, to test something Teammate One was sure, but apparently Whumper had gotten to enthusiastic that Dr. Nova had to wait until Whumpee was stable enough to even begin.

"H-how is Whumpee?" They dared to ask while simultaneously hoping for information as to what Dr. Nova planned to do with them.

It seemed like the doctor was ignoring them at first as they put the clipboard back and sat at their microscope once more.

"They are recovering just fine. They are stable and resting, though I'm sure that aberration was due to a nightmare of some kind. It is common in subjects who have been through a psychological trauma." He half-answered, turning his back to Teammate One as they resumed their notes on their blood work.

"Interesting…" He murmured aloud, here and there as he continued to work the blood samples.

Teammate One had given up counting the styrofoam tiles on the ceiling and cataloguing every item on the doctors desk. Their skin still hurt and they needed a distraction.

"What is?"

Dr. Nova glanced back over their shoulder with a raised brow. "What I am clearly working on, Teammate One. I know you are still experiencing some adverse effects, the antidote needs some improvement to be sure, but if you would quit interrupting I would be able to manufacture one much sooner for you."

"S-sorry."

"Quite alright…" he turned back to his work, collecting various bottles and vials to bring to his work station as he got to work.

"If you need a distraction try counting sheep."

[adinathinternationalindia]

Injectable Vial Filling Machine

Injectable Vial Filling Machine or Vial Liquid Filling Machine perform liquid medicine filling operations into vials. Vial filler does nitrogen purging, liquid filling and rubber stoppering operations onto glass vials. Machine available in different filling stations of two head, four head, eight head and twelve head which provide different production output. Machines are compact in size hence less size sterile room requirements. It meet all pharmaceutical requirements in modern technologies. The main structure of the injectable vial filler includes stainless steel cabinet,  laminar air flow unit, infeed turn table, conveyor belt, filling nozzles, piston or peristaltic pump, outfeed turn table, vibrator bowl and chute for rubber bungs, pneumatic modules and  electrical control panel with an AC drive, PLC, and HMI.

Adinath International is profound manufacturer of injectable vial filling machines in India with 6500 in total machine installations across the world. We are having different types of vial filling machines in which small vial filling machine is choice of R&D laboratories, research institutions and small scale productions. High speed vial filling machines are suitable choice among medium and large scale pharmaceutical production house. Sturdy mechanism, less maintenance and easy to operate are the pillars which makes Adinath as one of the established vial filling machines manufacturer in India.

[flower-of-zaun]

CAPTIVATED

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2

Silco x Fem!Reader A young woman named Xylia, rises from the depths of The Sump, ready to take down the source of shimmer and liberate Zaun. Her plans go awry and is captured by Silco. Her life is now in his hands, constantly controlled, living a life of servitude.

Will she escape the mighty Eye of Zaun?

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT TRIGGER WARNING: Death, violence, dark themes

This is a rewrite of a story I started last year. Enjoy. AO3 Link

Chapter 1: Bottom of The Pit

“Where the Sump Rats gather, trouble tends to stir.”

That is what my mother used to say before I would go outside into The Lanes to play. She forbade me to go into the lower levels. She tried so hard for me to make friends in the upper levels, even getting me into a pristine school in Piltover. Too bad top-sider’s can smell a rat dressed in cheap clothing. I could never fit in up there, but the people of the fissures, they never judged. Mother tried her best to keep me from the darkest parts of the under-city, but that was all in vain. Once the Lung Blight took her from me, I lost everything.

Just another young Sump Rat, left on her own within the darkest levels of the city and her psyche.

“Where the Sump Rats gather…” I huff as I pull up my mask and adjust my burlap tote on my shoulder.

The fumes coming from the pump station were especially strong tonight; they were in overdrive. The tinny scraping of the large mechanical arms echoed through the fissures. The constant hum of the machines usually kept me awake all night, but tonight it brought me comfort; it would drown out the voices of resentment and keep our plans of rebellion to ourselves.

In this area the only audible thing other than the grinding of the fissure gears was the light splatter of my boots on the damp cobblestone. The green haze that generally lingered was thick and low and just walking through the fog made my clothes damp from the mist. It kept people inside where they could stay warm and away from the worst of the exhaust.

A perfect night to execute our plan.

I made my way to my apartment, walking just faster than I normally would. I fought to keep my breath even, but my heart still beat rapidly in my chest and paranoia crept up the back of my neck the closer I got to my front door.

With a quick turn of my key I swiftly step past the threshold and slam the door closed. I rest my back against it and drop my chin to my chest, taking in one long deep breath. As I exhale, the ringing in my ears fades and the grinding of the fissure machines fill my small home once again.

The gathering is soon.

The last before we finally take action.

I pace from wall to wall, clearing personal items to free up chairs and crates for seats. There were about twenty in our team, each of them sick of Shimmer and how it was affecting everything in the under-city. The drug was flooding the streets like plague, ripping apart the delicate ecosystem of the fissures and its people. We had to survive down here. All of the people had looked out for one another, but now the fight for another glowing purple vial seemed to be more important than the fight for your neighbor.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Something had to be done.

A sudden knock made me jump. With a quick glance over the room, I approach the door to let in my first visitor. I looked through the peephole to see a familiar figure standing in the hallway. I rushed to let them in. 

“Ryot! You’re actually on time for once,” I giggle and pull the man in for a hug.

“Wouldn’t miss this for anythin’, Xylia,” he says as he pulls down his mask, “I wanted to get here early, just incase I needed to save ya from gettin’ cold feet,” he grins as he tilts his head forward slightly.

“No need for all that,” I sigh as I push his forehead causing him to smile and stand at full height, “I’m ready, dude,” I reassure him. “Let’s just review the game plan, make sure this is fool-proof.”

I knew I could count on Ryot; he has been there since the beginning. He grew up in The Sump and when it became my permanent home, he was the first one to take me under his wing. He taught me how to fight, to scavenge, to survive in the fissures. He was a long lost brother, gifted to me when I had nothing left, and I was grateful he had my back.

Ryot was also fed up with the Shimmer situation. The both of us had spoken about saving up and getting out of the fissures, climbing to The Lanes, but the drug was working its way up anyway. It was just as bad above us, and that's when we both decided; instead of running away, we would fight the problem at its source.

We would go after The Eye of Zaun. 

Walking into the lion’s den seemed like a deathwish, but we had carefully planned the attack. Months of following leads, sleepless nights of reconnaissance work, just to track down The Eye.

The man was an industrialist named Silco. He had been in power since I was a child. He fed the people of the under-city false hopes of being liberated from Piltover while simultaneously crippling them with a steady stream of Shimmer. If we take him out, the empire he built will topple. It seemed so simple, one person’s life to liberate a nation, but that was just talk. Liberating Zaun would take dedication and cunning.

Ryot had lost himself in the blue prints that were scattered across the table.

I could tell he was worried, his thick eyebrows furrowed as he nervously toyed with one of his long locs.

His golden eyes scan the documents, them flickering as he takes in every last detail, talking under his breath as he scribbles notes.

Sitting beside my brother, I put a hand on his shoulder before working to sort out the last of our plans before the others were to arrive.

It didn’t take long until each member of our team was present and there was a low humming of conversation. I step onto my table and suddenly the conversation goes silent and all eyes are on me.

“Tonight we gather to save our people.” I pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. I falter a moment before noticing Ryot close beside me, looking up at me with an encouraging smile before giving me a single nod. With a deep breath I continue, “Shimmer has become an epidemic, ravaging our city and I am tired of Piltover turning a blind eye. Refusing to help us. Instead, we shall be the ones to save our once great nation. Tonight we strike The Eye of Zaun down from his seat of power!”

As the entire room cheers Ryot helps me down from the table and a few people come and embrace me. 

“Why should we follow you on this fuckin’ suicide mission, aye?” The moment was cut short once another voice from the back of the room cut through the celebration.

“Excuse me?” Ryot turns toward the source of the voice.

“You heard me,” the voice comes again. It’s grovely, but familiar. The pale skinned half-elf pushes past the few at the back of the room and stops at the center. “I get what we are fightin’ for, but if we step foot in that place…” he says as his gaze moves from Ryot’s eyes to mine. “She’ll get us all killed.”

“Devexian,” Ryot says sternly, taking a single step toward him.

The room is silent as every face looks between the two men for their next move.

Devexian straightens his posture and looks down just slightly to Ryot who takes another step toward him.

“Do you remember when those carts of Shimmer would be hauled through our streets every day?” Ryot says calmly, taking another step toward Devexian. “Do you remember how people would crowd them everyday, waiting for one of His men to take pity on one of them and toss them a vial? Until somebody was fuckin’ dumb enough to try to take from them?” Ryot takes the final step to close the distance between the two men. His head is craned upward to make eye contact. 

“Do you remember how many people died that day, Devexian?”

Devexian’s adam’s apple bobs up and down with a loud gulp.

“Do you see those carts around anymore? Hm?” Ryot asks again, but before Devexian could answer Ryot chuckles. “Do you think they just left on their own?”

Devenxian’s silent as his glance shifts over Ryot’s shoulder to me.

“Ahhhh, yes,” Ryot sighs, “You got it,” he encourages before stepping to the side so he is no longer standing between me and Devexian.

“Xylia is why they are gone,” Ryot says in a flat tone, his playful smile gone. “She organized us. She rallied us together and made those Shimmer pushers too scared to use our streets,” he says as he returns to my side.

Devexian nods and looks down before taking a step back.

“My sister is not your enemy,” Ryot says toward him, but then looks around to address the room. “The slimey excuse of a human being that thinks himself big enough to call himself The fuckin’ Eye of Zaun. Is. Our. Enemy.”

The energy in the room spikes. Voices ring in agreement.

Ryot looks toward me with a smile.

“He’s right,” I say and step forward. “We have our target. And our plan. We will fight like we have every single day of our lives down here in the Sump,” I extend an encouraging look toward Devexian and he nods, “and we will win.”

***

The music could be heard outside of The Last Drop, the steady rumble of the bass thumped through the street. Standing beside the entrance, I basked in the glow of the green lights that illuminate the front of the building. I nervously tap my foot to the beat of the music, watching my people slowly enter the bar as I wait for Ryot to join me. He had stayed behind, claiming having to tie up some loose ends and make some last minute preparations, but he was taking longer than expected.

“Typical. He shows up early, but fuckin’ late when its time to get shit done.” I grumble, biting my lower lip as I flick the ashes from my cigarette before taking another long drag. As the minutes pass, my anxiety builds. We had a small window of time to attack and every single minute was indispensable.

During our reconnaissance missions we had noticed that over the past few weeks Silco had been on the move; never staying in one spot for too long. It seemed like he was planning something big, we just couldn’t figure out what it was. Shimmer shipments were moving steadily and our inside sources told us he had gotten the rights for a few more mines. That was normal, which made Silco’s off moves even more unsettling.

Looking down at my watch I let out a heavy sigh. Ryot needed to be here fifteen minutes ago. If we are any later, we have to pull our people out and who knows if they’ll even come back, or worse, Silco could be onto our plans and retaliate before we can regroup.

“Yo, Xy!” A familiar voice calls for me.

I could see the silhouette of Ryot in a nearby alleyway, his amber eyes almost glowing in the darkness. I drop my cigarette to the ground and step on it as I quickly walk up to him, already annoyed with his tardiness. “Where the fuck have you been Ry?!” I hissed.

“Like I said, last minute preps, dude.” He says with a grin, pulling a small device from his pocket.

“What’s that?” I ask while starting to reach for it, but he quickly pulls it away.

“Be careful!” He snaps, shaking his finger at me. “I spent the last few minutes rigging some explosives to the bar, just in case shit gets hairy. We’ll have an escape plan for our escape plan.”

My annoyance instantly melted away and I wrapped my arms around him, “You mean a plan B?”

“Yeah, plan B or whatever,” he giggles, playfully pushing me away. “Now c’mon, we don’t got much more time left.”

We both walk toward the entrance of the bar, “It’s now, or never,” I say brazenly.

“Now or never, sis.” Ryot chuckles, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, ushering me inside.

Walking into The Last Drop, we were immediately surrounded by colored smoke; a thick haze that seems to be consuming the whole building. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The green neon lights illuminated the haze, making the patrons into shadow-like ghosts dancing around the bar.

Ryot breaks away, giving my shoulder a comforting squeeze before he disappears into the fog.

I am still a moment, just watching his silhouette moving between the maze of tables before he finally lowers into a seat. Once I saw that he was in position I took a deep breath and made my way toward the bar. Taking a seat, I wave the bartender down. “Oi! Oi!” I try to yell over the music.

The bartender quickly glides toward me, throwing a hand towel over his shoulder as he says, “Wot can I get cha dearie?”

“Whiskey on the rocks, make it a double,” my voice strains as I try to talk over the music, “and open a tab!”

The man began making my drink. I watched him intently, trying to distract myself from the anxiety that was building in my stomach.

He placed the drink in front of me with a smile and began taking other drink orders from the people around me.

My heart pounds in my ears as I look down at the drink in my hand, the beat of my blood rushing through my veins nearly drowning out the music around me. I knew I had to act now or it would be too late. I took a deep breath as I leaned back against the bar, propping my elbows on the marble countertop. I needed to calm down. Anxiety meant impulsive choices and tonight we couldn’t afford any risks or mistakes. 

I was about to take a sip of my drink when something caught my eye; a slender man standing on the upper level of the bar. His eyes scan over the area below as he rests his forearms on the railing until his dual-colored gaze met my own. 

I froze.

Silco, the mighty Eye of Zaun, was looking at me. His fiery eye seemed to burn through my soul. 

Something told me to run; to call the whole thing off, gather everyone up, and bring them to safety. The tension in my body threatened to snap until that fear began to fade. The shaking in my bones calmed and a snarl creased harder on my face as a different feeling began to bubble to the surface.

Hate.

Hate for the man that caused me and my people so much pain. Even though we are already under the oppressive boot of Piltover, he still managed to profit off our suffering and make our lives even worse. I couldn’t back down now. The Eye of Zaun was here, everyone was in position, and we were ready to fight back. He cocked his head as he looked down at me with a curious grin. Anybody subject to his searing gaze would have turned away in fear by now, but I stood my ground.

I will not live in fear of him anymore.

Suddenly his glance shifts away and he straightens himself before stepping back into the shadows. With a smirk I quickly drink the glass of whiskey. I take a deep breath as its warmth runs down my arms and pools in the pit of my stomach before spreading throughout my body. I hold my drink for a moment, tapping my index finger against the glass, before suddenly slamming it on the ground. 

“FOR THE UNDERCITY!” I cry out across the bar. The glass explodes the instant it hits the floor. Conversation immediately stops as nearby patrons turn their attention toward the glass shards at my feet.

“Aye! The fuck ya think your doin’ ya brat?!” The bartender screams.

I reach for the dagger in my belt as I quickly turn on my heel toward the hot breath behind me. In an instant it lodges itself just between his eyes with a sickening crunch, sending the man crumbling to the ground like a rag doll.

Then suddenly, five more bodies drop, their necks cut from ear to ear by Ryot and a few others who had started their movement with the signal of the shattering glass. At that moment, time seemed to slow down. 

It was time to tear this place to the ground.

The room explodes into chaos and the two guards that were standing just inside the entrance come hurtling toward me at lightning speed, much faster than they should for how bulky they are. I raise my arms to brace for impact just before Ryot and Devexian collide with the two large men, bringing them to their knees before snapping their necks in one fluid motion.

In one fell swoop Ryot slips a dagger from his waist and tosses it in the air with a little flourish before catching it and extending his arm just as a woman steps close enough to be caught on his blade.

“Aahg!” the woman cries.

“Xylia! Find Silco!” Devexian commands as he raises an arm to block an incoming dagger. 

“We got it from here sis! Go!” Ryot barks and takes out his gun. He gives me a reassuring wink before shooting bullets into the other guards. 

I proudly smile at him before dashing into the crowd. Bodies and fists are crashing together as people flow through the exits, trying to escape the carnage. As I weave past fighters I duck into a corner near the bottom of a large stairway and turn back toward the destruction.

We are tearing through The Eye of Zaun’s army like paper. With each hit from the opponent, two of them drop. We came with blades and gunpowder and the amount of bodies on the floor proved how unprepared they were for our ambush. Everything is going according to plan. Now was the most crucial step of our plan, a piece that I trusted only with myself; the finishing blow to their leader to end this madness once and for all.

The guards that had been posted at the bottom of the stairs were now bleeding out in the middle of the bar. I take two steps upward, watching behind me to make sure I don’t catch the attention of anybody behind me. With stealth, I make it to the upper level of the bar where it was much darker, but luckily had less of the sickly green haze that made it difficult to see.

Still crouching, I take a moment to adjust to the dim lightning, allowing my irises to relax and further open to let in any and all bits of light. I felt like a predator on the hunt for its prey. With a slow breath in I dash to where I last saw the target, searching for any trace of him.

Searching the area I found a small hallway, barely shielded by thick curtains. Just as I step forward and cautiously bring my hand to the thick velvet…

BOOM

There is a loud blast that vibrates through my rib cage as I fight for balance while the building seems to sway.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I hiss as I stand from my crouch to turn around, clutching the railing as I look down into the green cloud of dust and debris. How did things go south so quickly? But I had just gotten up here? We had every guard on their ass! We had done everything right!

Pulling my pupils tight again, I focus on the shadows that push and pull the smoke until I recognize Ryot’s glowing golden eyes near the exit.

He looks terrified. Something was wrong, so very wrong.

I fought the urge to run to him as more of Silco’s fighters blocked their retreat.

Only one bomb had been triggered out of the supply Ryot had rigged, so he must still have confidence in the plan? Right?

My grip on the railing tightened as I watched what was left of my team pull back from the exit as Ryot led them to the other end of the bar, but Silco’s followers were close behind.

“They knew we were coming!” An unknown voice shrieked and my heart dropped into my stomach.

No. We had been so careful not to let things slip. Everyone was a long time friend or trusted acquaintance. There was no possible way they could have known we were coming.

Watching everyone try to run away, sent me into a panic. I needed to act fast. If I didn’t get to The Eye of Zaun now, he wouldn’t just send his men after us. He would spend the rest of his days hunting us down like common vermin until the threat was terminated.

Each of us knew the risks. We all understood that whatever happened in the bar was second only to the ultimate goal. For me to make it to Silco and kill him.

Silco would not triumph. We needed to stay in this fight.

With one last look I turn away from the railing, slipping my hands into the slit of the heavy curtains before darting down the hall while doing my best to keep my footsteps quick and nimble. The Eye was within my reach, the blueprint of The Last Drop almost overlapping my vision as I flit to the last door on the left.

I could finally bring this war to an end. 

This fight couldn’t be for nothing.

I stand before a dark wooden door, and for a moment I hesitate. I know whatever lies behind this door could either free everyone from the Eye’s oppressive grip on the Under City or kill me. I twist the door handle and the clicks open, the pale green light of the neons shining through the crack. I take a deep breath in before I take out my dagger and-

CRACK!

The feeling of metal hitting the back of my head, caused me to lurch forward, falling to my knees. My vision now hazy, so I turn to look at my attacker.

CRACK!

I do not get the chance, I am plunged into total blackness.

***

A bolt of white hot pain flashes across my chest, my eyes shoot open and I try to scream for Ryot, but all I can manage to do is let out a panicked whimper of pain. I look down to see my top stained red. I try to bring my hand to the cloth to check on the wound underneath, only to struggle against the rusted metal clamps restraining my forearms and the rope that kept my calves tight to the legs of the chair.

“Fuck!” I grunt as I try to pull my arms out of their confines, but even my slim hands can’t be pulled through the steel cylinder.  My eyes flash upward. I’m in a small room with a burning torch hung beside the large wooden door. The walls are a mix of stone and metal, dusty and dank. I pull my head as far as I can to my right in an attempt to look over my shoulder and behind me, but just as my chin meets my shoulder my right collar bone cracks. The scream that left my body shook my bones and echoed in the small cellar of a room. I drop my head, panting and trying to stay as still as I can as the fire of my movement dulls to a throbbing ache.

Suddenly the large wooden door swings open and hits the hall behind it, the speed of the movement almost blowing out the torch.

“You’re finally awake,” a deep and grainy voice says as it’s figure ducks under the door frame and lifts the torch from it’s casing on the stone.

“Fuck off!” I spit as far as I can, my loogy making it just in front of the man’s feet. “Where am I!?”

The man closes the door before turning back toward me, his wide gate allowing him to approach me in only two steps. With him closer and holding the torch I can now see his face. His skin is a pale blue and he’s covered in black geometric tattoos. He leans in closer, “The vermin wants to know where she is,” he chuckles and a lighter voice joins behind him.

I gasp and strain against my bindings as another figure comes into view. 

They had short dirty blonde hair that went every which way like they went at it with a pair of sheers and no mirror. Their face is dusty and as they approach the larger figure’s side they grin and show they are missing three of their top teeth. “Hello, Dear,” they grin as their eyes flash purple.

“Where am I!?” I demand again, and try again to pull my arms free only to bruise my wrists even further.

“Yonn, the light,” the smaller figure gestures and the one called Yonn steps closer, holding the torch over my head. I try to look up, but my collar bone screams again. I pant as I continue to pull against the clamps as the blonde reaches into their coat.

“You will refer to me as Nastoen,” they say as they slowly pull out a crystal tagger, the length continuing and continuing almost impossibly long for where they kept it until they swiftly adjust their grip to direct it’s tip at my face.

“What the fuck is going on?” I snap.

“It seems there was an attempt on the Eye of Zaun’s life,” they say as they turn away to pace slightly. 

I remain quiet, hoping they would give me more information.

“I’ve been asked, due to my… skills,” Nastoen flicks the dagger easily in their fingers, “to acquire information from you-”

I spit again.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nastoen smiles as they move their blade to deflect my projectile with no effort. Their crystal blade glows like a fiery opal where my saliva touched it. It sizzles slightly as the moisture burns away. Then in one smooth moment they were back in front of me, the tip of their dagger an inch from my neck. “You will tell me who was involved in this failed coup,” the blade moves closer.

“I’m not going to tell you anything.”

Nastoen grins and gently slides the edge of the crystal against my neck, the gem glowing as it meets my skin. I cry out, as I feel the strange blade heat up against my skin. Struggling against the chair to try to move away, but my head just hits against the back of the chair as it feels like my throat is being torn apart by molten glass. They pull their blade away and I gasp as I look down, expecting to see my blood pouring onto my lap, but there was none.

“Interesting thing, this crystal,” Nastoen says as they carefully examine the length of the dagger, careful to keep their hand on the stone grip. “Shimmer isn’t the only thing they cultivate in those mines,” they say as they point the top of their tagger at my hand. “There’s a natural crystal down there that when soaked in shimmer, has some interesting properties,” they bite their bottom lip as they rest the tip of the blade on my hand.

I cry out, cursing loudly as opalescent sparks fly from my skin and when they pull away, all that is left is a cauterized gash in my skin. For a moment, I feel like I am going to pass out again, but the blade is suddenly at my cheek and I can feel my skin starting to bubble. “The wounds tend to heal quickly, but I’ve been told the burn,” they say as they push the blade just slightly deeper into my cheek, “is the worst pain one can experience.”

I scream again as Nastoen pushes deeper into my face, making my teeth feel as if they are going to pop out of my skull, before he pulls back again. My head falls forward causing another crack to come from my collar bone, but even now that pain is dwarfed compared to what I had just experienced. “The blade…” I croak.

Nastoen adjusts their shoulders and smirks. “The Sump Rat has something to say?”

“The blade does all the work,” I sigh with a smug smile, I will not let him break me, “You have no skill.”

The last thing I remember is the way their face pulled into a grimace and then the indescribable burn of the blade before everything went black. Each time I came to there were more burns on my hands and arms. I was thrown more questions that I did not answer.

Then darkness, again.

I don’t know how long I was out between each interrogation, but each time my eyes fluttered open the dagger flew to a new portion of my exposed skin until Nastoen started cutting through my clothes to reach the untouched flesh underneath.

“Tell me! Who sent you!!” Nastoen shouts.

So much time had passed that even the torch Yonn still held above me less of a flame and more of a stake that burned like almost dead coal after a fire. I fought to lift my head. I lost count of how many times the crystal blade was held to my skin and how many time’s the world had gone black because of it.

“You know, you really suck at talking to women.” I say through nearly gritted teeth, the pain of talking is almost too much to bear.

“You smart mouthed brat! If you don’t want to talk I’ll just-” Nastoen’s nostrils flared as they lifted their dagger into the air.

I wince, preparing for the searing burn of the blade to cause me to fade away again.

“That’s enough.”

I opened my eyes to see Nastoen still standing with their arm held high, panting as they looked down at me with wild eyes. They slowly lower their arm, never losing their grip of their dagger, prepared to maim in an instant.

The dim light from the torch moved as Yonn left my side and moved away with Nastoen.

“You are quite the survivor,” the voice speaks again as he takes a step closer to me. “Amazing you still haven’t spilled any of your secrets.”

With Yonn’s torch now behind the figure, all I could see was the slim silhouette of a man approaching me. “There are no secrets to tell.” I groan, my throat burning from the deep wound across the middle of my neck.

“That is just fine, darling. Those friends of yours didn’t put up nearly as much of a fight.”

“Don’t you dare touch them!” I growl.

“There’s just a bit more information I am seeking, and I think you can help me.”

“Fuck you.” I seeth.

“Ah, I think you may change your mind. See, I have something that Nastoen here does not. Much more persuasive than a charming little dagger,” the shadow says playfully.

Suddenly a figure is thrown to the floor beside the man; the shadow coughs.

My blood instantly runs cold, it’s Ryot.

“Xy- don’t tell ‘em anyth-” Ryot starts until Yonn’s boot comes down on his back.

Tears well in my eyes as I look back toward the figure. “Who are you?” I demand.

There’s a low chuckle and a small movement before a light that is glowing purple, is pulled from the man’s coat. Suddenly his body is illuminated by the vial of shimmer and my breath catches in my throat as I see him lifting the vial,  a soft, purple glow revealing his scarred face and corrupted eye.

Silco.

I gasp, but before I can speak, the sound of another person being dragged into the small room catches my attention. “Please, please just let us go-” Devexian cries as his body hits the floor.

I fight to hold back the tears, but they suddenly fall down my cheeks. They are all alive, they somehow lived through whatever happened at the bar. I was relieved to see them unharmed, but I knew that would not last long if I didn’t act fast. “It was me!” I yell, a jolt of pain surging through me when I do, “All me!” I cough, trying to keep my voice strong.

Two more large men enter the room with lit torches and toss another body onto the ground, and another. They were piling my friends on top of each other and I blinked through my tears as I scanned over their bodies for any sign of movement. Some of their hands twitched and some of them groaned, but half of them didn’t move at all.

“Please! I talked them into it! I- I told them I’d pay them if they helped me fight,” I lied, trying to keep my voice as even as I can.

“Xylia-don’t do this.” Ryot mumbles from the floor.

I quickly cut him off, “Please let them go. Please,” I pull at my restraints again, but they still don’t budge.

Silco’s posture straightens before he tosses the vial of shimmer to Yonn, I could hear him chuckle, “Good riddance.” before leaving the room with Nastoen. 

I watch as Silco steps over a limp body toward Devexian. Tears stream down my cheeks as I flex against my bindings over and over with no success in breaking them. He grabs the hair at the back of his head and yanks backward, craning it back to expose his neck. “I can't have people who are so easily swayed toward violence with just a bit of coin, running in the streets,” Silco says as he reaches into his coat again, but this time pulling out a dagger.

“We can come to an agreement! Stop!” I cry, my eyes flashing between the dagger at Devexian’s neck and Ryot, nearly lifeless on the floor next to him.

Devexian weakly brings a hand to Silco’s.

“A band of assassins isn't safe for Zaun,” he says calmly as he effortlessly drags the blade through Devexian’s neck.

“No!” I scream, watching his blood pour into the stone floor.

Silco keeps his grip on Devexian’s hair for a moment, watching as his blood pumps onto the ground with the last few beats of his heart, before dropping him back into the pool of thick crimson. He steps over his body and kneels beside Ryot, doing the same; yanking his hair to crane his head back to expose his neck.

“It was me! It was me! It was all me!” I sob.

Ryot’s golden eyes meet mine.

“I paid them off! I talked them into it!”

“The city is safer this way,” Silco says, dragging his dagger through Ryot’s throat.

The glowing ember of Ryot’s eyes fades to a dull yellow.

“You fucking monster!” I scream as I watch the growing puddle of blood under Ryot’s body.

Silco stands, wipes his blade on a handkerchief, and pockets his dagger. “Kill the rest,” he demands, cold and emotionless.

He walks out of the room as his henchmen reveal their own daggers and knives, walking to each body, even those already dead, pulling their blades through flesh over and over again until the smell of iron fills the small room.

“Stop!” I beg, choking on my tears, “Please! Stop!”

With blood still dripping from their knife, one of the large men steps toward me, leaning in close enough that their musty breath fans over my face as they chuckle.

I throw my head toward his, the crack of his skull echoes, calling attention to the other henchmen as they kick the bodies of my crew to the walls and off of the main floor.

Just as their eyes meet mine I pull my arm once more and with a final crunch of my wrist, my arm is free.

In the instant they start stomping toward me I reach for the knife that had clattered to the floor and cut my legs free. I stand and spin, swinging the wooden chair into the closest body coming for me. They crumple to the ground as the chair breaks into pieces, leaving the metal cuff on my forearm, but overall, I am free.

I refuse to die without a fight.

Three of Silco’s men stand before me, readying themselves for me to strike. 

My body aches as I step before them, muscles weighed down by grief and fear. I look down at my boots leaving prints in the layer of blood that had flooded over the stone. Then, the blood fades away. The bodies fade away. I see red as I lift the knife in front of me. The first guard smirks and as they lunge toward me, I easily duck below the swipe of their massive arm, before lodging the knife into their thigh and pulling with all of my strength causing the blade to slice through their femoral artery. They are brought to their knees with a garbled scream, before they fall over, smacking into the wet floor.

The second and third charge at me at the same time. I dodge a punch on the right and deflect a blade with the cuff still on my forearm. Using that moment of their surprise, I thrust my arm upward, lodging the full length of my dagger under their chin. They instantly fall, and as I’m pulling back my arm, I spin and force my knife into the last guard’s gut with all the strength I can muster. Blood spattering into my face as he coughs, before falling to the ground.

Adrenaline is coursing through my veins as I look over my hands, bright red with fresh blood. Then I remember…my brother.

I run to Ryot, kneeling in the pool of blood that surrounds him. I push his shoulder and he rolls onto his back. I hope to see his comforting expression he always has, but his face is pale and cold to the touch.

“Ryot… Ryot please…” I say as I hold his cheeks, his dim eyes staring up at me. “Ryot wake up.” I cry, my tears falling onto him. “Ryot!” I shake his limp body, searching for any sign of life. Pressing my head to his blood soaked chest, I listen for a heartbeat, but I am met with nothing. I let out deep heavy sobs, clinging to his cold body.

I couldn’t hear the steps over my painful cries. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pinch between my shoulder blades before I collapse even further onto the floor.  My vision blurs as I look up to the figure of a large woman looming over me. Here

“Sevika?” I groan as I try to lift myself from the ground. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“A little somethin’ to keep you in check.” She smirks, before picking me off the ground and tossing me onto her shoulder.

I try to struggle against her, but my limbs feel heavy again. She kicks Ryot’s corpse out of her way before carrying me out of the room, I fight to keep my eyes open as I sway with each of her steps. The woman stops for a moment, I come to for a moment, trying to stay hyper vigilant of my surroundings. 

“What do you want me to do with this one, Boss?” Sevika’s voice is low.

There isn’t a reply at first, all I can hear are footsteps that stop behind Sevika. I turn my head toward the sound and wince as my tired muscles scream at me. I am met with the sight of Silco standing before the both of us.

“Hmm,” Silco hums in thought.

He’s so close. If only I could just move my fucking arms, I could get him. 

I could feel the drug taking effect, making my already worn out body feel even more exhausted. My entire body feels like lead and as blood rushes to my fingertips, I can’t seem to move my arms anymore at all. With the strike of his lighter he looks at me with a humored grin. He lights his cigar and takes a long draw in before exhaling into my face. “She’s got some fight in her, maybe she can be of use to us.”

“You fucking monster.” I  manage to growl.

He lifts his hand and gently grabs my face.

“And she has a smart mouth, too,” he pauses, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “She will come back with us. Maybe she’ll be of use…” his cold gaze meets mine again, “or not, we shall leave that up to her.”

I strain against the weight of my body while Sevika begins to walk out of the building. As she carries me down the street, the sun begins to peek over the edge of the cliffs, warming my skin. I fight to stay awake but the warmth of the rising sun and the rocking of Sevika’s steps lull me to sleep.

I do not know where Silco is taking me, but even as I drift into a fitful rest, fear of what will happen next overtakes me. Last night, this man had taken so much from me, now he threatens to take what little freedom I have left.

*** READ CHAPTER 2 ***

Thank you for reading! For story updates and artwork follow my twitter: @flower_of_zaun Story will be update weekly/biweekly

[theferricfox]

[[A/N: Hi, hello! I'm alive (figuratively speaking) and I wrote a thing for the first time in a long long while. Writer's block has been eating me alive for a spell, but then I woke up on morning and said, well, if it isn't Whumptober, my dear friend.

So have a Whumptober Trigun piece. Yes, Trigun! I've fallen back in love with it lately and I have no regrets. I grew up with the '98 series on late night Toonami, and it coming back to my life has been a big boost of juicy nostalgia (and psychological damage iykyk).

Content Warnings! Smoking, Drinking, Canon-typical violence, vomiting.]]

IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOONS

He wakes up to the taste of blood on his tongue and pain surging through his chest. He’s been shot; he knows he has, and he jumps up in bed to inspect his bare chest, even as he reaches into the small pouch on the bedside table, fumbling for the small glass vials within. 

But he’s not bleeding, and there’s no metal lodged in his body. His skin is as smooth and flawless as it’s ever been, save for the odd small scar he got as a child. The ones from before don’t go away, even as the blue liquid wipes away any chance of a new one.

He sighs, frustrated and unsettled. From next to him on the bed – why doesn’t this hotel room at least have a couch? – comes a soft snore, frills of blonde hair peeking out from under the sheet. He knows he won’t sleep again for a while, so he reaches onto the table again, this time for his smokes. He’s surprised to find his hand is shaking somewhat as he lights up, and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until they start to burn. The plume that he exhales curls and drifts towards the ceiling, vanishing to join the rest of the stuffy air of the room.

When did he even pick up smoking? He can’t remember anymore. He remembers stealing from the adults a few times when he just hit his double-digits, but he knows he didn’t truly start smoking until after. And the last six years since he left the orphanage are largely a blur. They’re filled with a constant need to move and to keep moving, pulled from one job to another. They’re filled with gunfire and blood and little glass ampules. 

When he first started, he drank them like the honey-sweet drinks of his childhood, even for injuries that were far from fatal. Even if the fight was over and he could have just as easily rested in a hospital for a few days, he would choose instead to crack the neck of the little ampule and gulp down the mouthful of liquid. He was told not to – this was a path that led to something like an addiction; a reliance on the serum would cause his body to stop healing as well on its own. He was warned of the potential for an overdose; the serum throwing his body’s chemistry into overdrive until it practically burst at the seams. But for the first few months after they cut him loose, he ignored the warning. 

There’s something innately satisfying about the feeling of the glass cracking under the enamel of his teeth, but that feeling is amplified when the liquid slides down his throat and the power surges through him. The feeling of invincibility that comes from watching the bullets that were once lodged into his skin, his bones, his organs, harmlessly falling to the ground as though they were nothing more than paper… that’s intoxicating. 

He was an orphan once. Unwanted and worthless. And now, he’s survived a total of fifty-eight otherwise fatal gunshot wounds. Compared to the dirty child he was, growing up in the sand and dust, wondering if he’ll ever be good enough to get adopted, he’s a god. The kid he was should look up to him with awe and reverence. Should.

Now, he’s haunted by scars that only he can see. The bullet that pierced and collapsed his left lung. The place where his flesh was rendered to shredded meat by heavy machine gun fire. The 9mm slug that barely grazed his heart and sent his vision spiraling and blood into his mouth. He knows all those marks are there, hidden under his skin. He sees them every time he undresses, little phantoms skittering along his skin like insects; blink and you’d miss them. When Judgement comes, they’ll all light up on his broken body, like the feeble lights of the orphanage beating back the dark for the kids afraid of the noises of the night.

He traces one of these phantom scars, once a long gash from an eight-inch blade straight into his gut. He’d scrambled to keep his intestines inside of him, fear and adrenaline racing through him as shit and blood spilled onto the floor. He’d flopped onto his back, eyes wild and hazy, and cracked open the vial so haphazardly that he drank glass alongside the liquid. It burned down his throat, a macabre cascade of flesh rending and healing, but by the time his gut had healed, it didn’t matter. He could shit glass and it wouldn’t matter; not anymore. 

He’d beaten that asshole’s skull in, slamming the arm of the Punisher into his face over and over again as he bellowed some animalistic sound from deep in his chest. It was too messy, in the end. He’d spent days cleaning blood and brain and skull out of the crevices of the Punisher, every new piece he found lodged in the weapon filling him with a sense of disgust. 

Now, as he sits on the bed, his cigarette halfway burned through, he wonders what the man sleeping next to him would think if he knew of all these phantom scars, or the stories of how he got them. For all he knows, Spikey can see them, too. The man has an uncanny way of seeing through people, of knowing them with just a few glances and firm handshake. Still, all the scars on Vash’s body suggest that he can’t read people for shit. They speak of betrayal, countless deceptions for which he has paid the price. And still, he continues to trust. Or maybe, he always knows he’ll be betrayed and continues to trust them anyway, deciding that the alternative is worse.

Wolfwood can’t decide if that makes him incredible or stupid. What kind of heart is crushed and smashed and burned and stabbed and shot that many times and still finds a way to wake up with a smile? He knows most of those smiles are fake, and they’re painful to look at, so painful that he’s debated punching Spikey in his stupid face every time one of those false smiles creeps onto his lips. 

But still, some of those smiles are real… especially when he’s around kids, and those are the times Wolfwood really can’t figure him out. It’s almost unsettling, really, seeing that genuine smile and hearing the tinny laughter from a man so used to faking it that it’s practically his middle name. There’s no doubt that Vash has a thing with kids; they love playing with him, trust him intrinsically, and they seem to know exactly how rough and tumble they can be with him, with not a care for his reputation. Wolfwood can’t help but feel a strange clenching in his chest, watching the so-called Humanoid Typhoon around children. He knows what Vash is or, he thinks he does, and there’s something simultaneously monstrous and beautiful seeing everything that makes him inhuman melt away as soon as some kid tugs on his coat or pelts him with a ball. 

Wolfwood pulls deeply from his cigarette, flooding his lungs with nicotine and smoke and exhales again, his gaze aimed at the ceiling. He exhales, idly poking the cloud of smoke with a finger as it drifts upward, and he scoffs. Who is he to call Vash monstrous? He is a monster in his own right. If he were to visit the orphanage now, he’d have no right to hug the children there, or to play with them. He couldn’t call his old friends by name and rekindle the friendships that made life bearable back then, not with his hands so soaked with blood he’s practically marinating in it. Hell, if Miss Melanie even recognized him, she’d probably beat him to death with a broomstick before he stepped foot in the building.

She would see right through him, he knows it. She would see the blood coating his skin and the scars marking the last six years of his life and she… well, she would never forgive him. Not that he expects forgiveness; he knows exactly what he deserves, has come to terms with it. But to picture Melanie, the only person he’s known as a mother, terrified and appalled by what she would see in him… the thought is almost enough to make him put a bullet in his brain.

Wolfwood crushes the cigarette into the ashtray with a soft grunt and gets out of bed. He’s aware that Vash’s soft snores ceased minutes ago, meaning he’s probably awake and trying to hide it, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to see those sad blue-green eyes tracing over him with concern. He doesn’t want to answer questions or ‘talk about it.’ All he wants is for the silence of the night to smother his thoughts. 

He walks to the bathroom, silent as he can through the creaking of old wooden floorboards, and shuts the door behind him, the latch softly clicking into place. The darkness of the bathroom, with just a small window opposite the shower, facing away from the light of the moons, is stifling and freeing all at once. In here, it’s so dark that he can’t see his phantom scars. If you can’t see them, they aren’t real and they can’t get you, just like he used to tell the kids who thought they heard monsters in the dark. Big brother Nico, always there for the little ones, until he wasn’t. Now, he’s the monster in the dark, reaching into the night to pluck the souls of the living from their bodies.

The thought makes him retch, and he barely manages to maneuver over to the toilet before he vomits, the taste in his mouth acrid and vile. He heaves, over and over again, his eyes watering, snot dribbling miserably out of his nose, until there’s nothing left but empty gasping and an aching stomach. He grabs toilet paper and wipes at his face, spits into the toilet, and flushes the mess away. He sits against the cold glass of the shower door, panting into his hand, trying to stay quiet.

It doesn’t work. There’s a small, tentative knock on the door.

“Wolfwood?”

Of course Spikey heard him. Damn him.

“What is it?” He tries to smooth over the acidity in his voice, play it cool, like he didn’t just puke his guts out. 

“I um… I gotta go.” There’s that tiny laughter. The one that says, This is the best lie I could come up with.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on.” Wolfwood hauls himself up from the floor and turns on the sink. He washes his mouth out, washes his hands. He wonders distantly if he should have changed that order of actions.

He walks out, casual as he can, the door revealing Vash with his hair down, shirt off to reveal all those horrific scars. Vash laughs, his hand immediately at the back of his head, all shy and quiet cunning.

“Sorry to rush you, I just really gotta go.”

Wolfwood grunts and pushes past him, walking over to the table in the room. There’s still some of the cheap whiskey they brought up earlier in a bottle on the table, thanks be to whatever god might still exist in this godforsaken world. He pours himself a shot and takes it down fast, grimacing from the taste before pouring another, nursing this one a little more. He knows what’s left in this bottle isn’t enough to get him drunk, not with his metabolism. He doesn’t care. He just needs the burn to distract him.

Vash makes a show of taking the loudest piss on the whole planet, running the water for ages afterwards to wash his hands. When he comes out, he’s all nervous giggles and wiggling, unthreatening movements.

“Man, I was sure I was going to wet myself for a moment there!” Vash starts.

“Can it, Spikey.” Wolfwood gulps the rest of the shot and pours another. After a moment’s consideration, he pours one for Vash, too, moving the glass to the other side of the table. An invitation. “I know you’ve been awake for a while now.”

“Yeah?” Vash sits obligingly, taking down the shot with as much hope of it doing anything as Wolfwood has and holds out the glass for another. He sips the second one when it’s poured.

“You’re too damn obvious. That’s your problem.” Wolfwood sips again. 

Silence stretches into the room, neither man moving. The stage has been set for a macabre sort of quick-draw, but it’s one neither of them want to win. 

“Can’t go back to sleep?” Vash asks as casually as he can, as if he hasn’t already guessed what woke Wolfwood up in the first place.

“Nope. You?”

There’s another moment of silence, one that Wolfwood didn’t expect. Finally, he sees Vash raise his left arm in the dim light of the moons that pokes through the curtains.

“My arm hurts. It happens sometimes. Makes it hard to sleep.” Vash rubs the forearm of the prosthesis as though rubbing out a muscle cramp.

“But your arm isn’t there, Spikey. It’s fake. It’s not supposed to hurt.” It’s a question, one that Wolfwood think might have a very uncomfortable answer.

“Yeah.”

Silence seeps into the room again, broken only by the sound of glass on glass and glass on wood as the bottle is drained. They don’t talk about what wakes them up at night.

It’s just not what they do.

[vincess-princess]

as we were falling

ch. 7

a/n: this one is small. but you know how it is: it ain't much but it's honest work word count: 1021 warnings: prostate exam

The next morning he and Nikki, with growling stomachs, went to a medical exam. The office was clean and brightly lit, filled with state-of-the-art technology. Tommy didn’t even know the purpose for most of those. A woman in white uniform with golden buttons sat at the computer in the corner of the room.

“Number 971-TP5?” she clarified, not looking in Tommy’s direction.

“Uh-huh.”

“Right. Undress.” Her voice was just slightly more human than the robotic voice in the torture rooms.

She pointed in the direction of scales with a height measurement function. Tommy stepped on them, the metal of the device cold under his feet.

“195 cm and only 75 kg? Underweight.” Her fingers clicked on the keyboard. “You’ll be getting a special diet.”

“What’s special about it?”

She ignored the question. “Get in the ultrasound machine.” She noticed Tommy’s confusion and waved her hand with irritation towards a large intimidating device in the middle of the room, reminding of a very elaborate coffin. “This one.”

“Don’t move,” she ordered once Tommy was in. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Alright,” she typed something on the keyboard again, “no obvious defects… you’ve had your nose broken?”

“Yes.”

For the first time she looked right at him pointedly, then picked up glasses from the table and examined him again, now through them.

“No, it’s visible enough to omit… well, that’ll drive the price down a bit. Oh well.” She typed something on the keyboard again. “Now the MRI.”

Another intimidating machine, another couple minutes of waiting that felt like hours. The doctor found nothing bad in the MRI (what was that, even?) and nodded approvingly.

“Sit.” She pointed at the chair next to her table. Tommy did as told. She pulled out a stick and a light. “Open your mouth. Say ‘a-a-ah’.”

Then she checked his ears, lungs, neck and abdomen. At every stage she murmured something to herself and typed endlessly on the keyboard. Tommy wanted to know what was that she was typing real bad, but he suspected she wouldn’t let him take a peek.

When the doctor was done with the physical exam, she pushed a button on her desk. To Tommy’s surprise, a young girl wearing the same overalls as him appeared, the numbers on her chest showing her name was 538-BB4.

“Bibi,” the doctor turned to her, “this unit needs a FBC, genetic testing and blood sugar.”

“Will do, madam,” the girl replied, then disappeared behind a small white door in the corner that Tommy didn’t even notice before. She reappeared soon, carrying a box that Tommy assumed had materials for the blood test. “Your left arm, please,” she said to Tommy and smiled tentatively. Tommy smiled back. A needle piercing his skin evoked a familiar longing in his chest. No, no more of that, he berated himself.

“Does it hurt?” the girl asked anxiously – probably Tommy’s emotions seeped through onto his face. He shook his head.

“Good,” she smiled, pulled the needle out and filled a vial with his blood. She did this two more times, placed them in the box, picked it up and with a bow left the office. The room felt colder when the door closed behind her.

The doctor pulled out a round mirror with a hole and a flashlight. Tommy could only guess what this was for until she lifted them to his eyes.

“Look here.” She flashed the light in his eyes. Then she brought the mirror to his face. “Now here. Here. Here.”

Then she sat him down in front of a large machine and ordered to lean in and level his eyes to a lens.

“Perfect vision,” she murmured and clicked on the keyboard some more.

Then came the most unpleasant part of the exam.

“Get on the bunk,” she ordered. “On all fours.”

“What for?” Tommy frowned, seized with suspicion. That part of his body he treasured dearly and didn’t want any unwanted invasion. The doctor as if hadn’t heard him.

“Do as I said now,” she said in a slightly higher tone. “Or I’ll call the security.”

“Fine, fine,” Tommy sighed and climbed onto the bunk as the doctor put on rubber gloves.

What followed was as bad as he imagined. It was painful and pleasant at once, and he wanted to piss himself and come at the same time. He wanted to keep proudly silent, but couldn’t hold back whimpering. Did that count as losing anal virginity, a thought flashed through his head.

When the doctor pulled back, Tommy was overcome with such huge relief it drowned the shame and the indignation for a little while. But just for a little.

“That was rough,” he grumbled. He expected the doctor to ignore him again, but she looked him right in the eyes. They were watery-blue and stared as though through him.

“That’s what you get,” she said indifferently. She must have examined so many slaves, Tommy realized, that they were all the same to her. Whatever he answered, she wouldn’t pay attention. He could as well bark or meow.

So he didn’t answer. The rest of the checkup went in silence, interrupted only by clicking of the keyboard. The doctor didn’t even murmur to herself anymore.

“We’re done,” she only said when it was over. “Dress yourself and call in the next unit.”

Tommy did so. He was relieved to leave this pale, bleak room. The doctor didn’t even feel like a person – more like a robot, her face didn’t change once. Tommy wondered if she took up this work due to her nature or if her work made her this way.

That’s why, when he grasped the doorhandle, he was incredibly surprised to hear her voice again.

“Do you want to know your price?”

He turned back to her, examined her face. She looked at him calmly, but there was something in her eyes… curiosity?

“Yes.”

“Three thousand two hundred fifty-seven EDs, calculated from your health condition.”

Tommy was silent for a moment. Well, it was a bit flattering – he expected less.

“Thanks,” he said. She nodded.

“Call in the next unit.”

[raelhbishop]

Snapdragon's

“Are you sure about this?” she asks skeptically.

“We’ll be OK, I promise.” In truth, he didn’t know if it was safe. He’d been second-guessing himself since they entered the mountain. But he had faith in where they were going. He looks down once more at the strip of paper in front of him. An address he can barely make out, with a very clear drawing of a flower taking up half the page.

The couple works their way through the district’s winding streets and alleys. Being built, quite literally, inside the mountain, the district grew darker and darker as they ventured further. Flashing neon signs and halogen lights abound, the locals too poor to afford the holographic displays seen downtown. A few storefronts are entirely candlelit. Signs outside the buildings are written in many alien scripts, a stark contrast to the Three Universals seen downtown.

This mountain, located on the outskirts of a bustling spaceport city, falls into a legal loophole which landowners took advantage of to create extremely low-rent housing. In the years since, the district has housed all manner of creature and culture from across the stars. Locals aren’t dressed in the business suits and flashy garb of the tourists. They wear their native clothes in varying states of dishevelment. They speak their native tongues, sell the wares they made on their home planets, and pray to their own gods and divinities. They go about their daily business - but not without commotion.

A catfolk vendor and a rocklike customer argue over the sale of a melon. They speak in a language neither of our couple understands, though the lady can make out a few swears here and there. Frustrated, the customer smashes the melon on the ground. The vendor screams and leaps out at the customer, claws exposed. Further down, a huge amoeba purchases groceries from a six-armed grocer, absorbing the produce in vacuoles and carrying on. A crab-like creature with a broken leg plays an erhu for tips. A ferocious sculpture is repaired by an avian outside a temple, resembling something like a cross between Jesus, an octopus, and a twelve-armed bloodthirsty warlord.

The two search the crowds and storefronts for the flower, but can’t find it anywhere. Florists, grocers, co-op gardens, even clothing stores and wallpaper prints. None of them have that exact flower. They ask any and all locals they run into for directions. Of the ones they talk to, none of them seem to recognize it - not the writing, nor the design inside.

But they didn’t let the city pass them by. The two also used the chance to explore the district’s exotic amenities, to have a little fun in-between. They stopped for beverages at a stall and watched a worm drummer’s performance (which had been going on for five days prior). They spent some credits at a dance-machine with options for up to eight limbs. They stopped by an arcade and, mesmerized, watched a molluscan play Tetris for… much longer than they should have. They skimmed the various shops of the district, even if they couldn’t make out most of the signs and prices. Small trinkets of varying toxicity and beauty here and there, books and tablets and drives of any and all knowledge, knock-off brands alongside relics - and, of course, folks peddling them at each and every corner.

“Buy some alum-venom! Fresh alum-venom!” A naga merchant peddles the couple in a raspy voice, flashing a brown vial in their faces. “Does wonders to a mammal’s skin!”

“Isn’t that stuff toxic?”, she responds.

The snake vendor hisses, and the couple hurry out of the vendor’s reach, clasping each other’s hands and running for dear life.

❦

Now out of sight of the vendor, the two end up lost. This part of the district is dark and damp, and nobody else seems to be present. They see a series of pools, water filling them from the ceiling and draining below. The fun and joviality they experienced not too long ago now fills with a lingering sense of unease.

“Maybe we should ask someone for directions,” she says.

Reluctantly, he obliges. They keep walking until they spot a storefront with someone sleeping outside. It’s a stout figure, wearing an officer’s cap, bearing two turquoise arms and legs attached to a turtle-like shell. Underneath the cap is a single shut eye the size of a basketball.

“Entschuldigung?” He cycles through a few more languages before the figure acknowledges. “Excuse me, sir?”

The eye opens, and the figure awakes. The eye rises from the shell, revealing a mouth and a neck that slowly extend to a height nearly twice that of the lovers. A low-pitched gurgle resounds from the figure’s shell.

Our Romeo gulps, swallowing his fear.

His Juliet gasps, but stands her ground.

The figure’s eye wanders for a minute before spotting the couple. The figure gurgles once more, then speaks. “Oh! Yes. Sorry. Forgot I was on dry land. Can I help you?” Its voice is shrill and hoarse, like an out-of-tune violin.

He composes himself. “I need help finding this address. Do you know where it is?”

The figure bends its neck and reads his page. “Yes, I know where this is.” It thinks for a minute, then motions its nightstick to its left. “Go down that alley a few blocks. Take the staircase up…” it counts on its fingers “…four levels. You’ll see a store with votive candles directly to your right. Go right and continue that way until the lights turn blue.”

He takes a minute to note the directions in his head. “Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime.” The figure gets up from its seat, gurgling, and descends into a nearby pool. As it submerges, the gurgling turns into the baritone humming of a foreign tune.

❦

After taking the (surprisingly long) staircase up and walking past the votive candle shop (made from skulls), the two end up in a small back-alley filled with rugged housing. A couple of the streetlights are out. There isn’t a single flowerbed or touch of green anywhere. “This is supposed to be the place.”

The two of them look around for any signs of the flower, but the badly lit corridor makes figures hard to discern. Dejected, they turn around to look for someone to help them. Due to the dim lighting, she trips on a loose stone in the road, and he leaps on the ground to break her fall. Tending her wound, he spots something out of the corner of his eye. It’s a sign. There’s nothing written on it, just a graphic hidden under a dead streetlight. He approaches the sign. It’s got that same drawing of the flower on it.

“This is it! This has to be the place!”

She walks over to the sign. “Are you sure this is it?”

“It has to be.”

“But are you sure this is the place?”

There’s a moment of tense silence. “No.”

A wooden door with a doorhole sits next to the sign. He knocks on it thrice. They await a response.

The doorhole opens. Two steely eyes stare from it.

“Hi, I was invited here by a friend?” He puts the paper in view of the doorhole. “This is Gabriel Lennox.”

The figure reads the paper. “Ah, yes, we’ve been expecting you. Come in.”

The door opens, revealing an ashen-skinned waiter with cobalt hair and two ram-like horns. They enter the building and find themselves directly beside a kitchen. “This is the staff entrance. I’ll take you to the host.”

The kitchen itself seems as diverse and bustling as the rest of the district. An elephantine sous-chef prowls the kitchen, keeping it running like a well-oiled machine. Actually, ‘well-oiled machine’ isn’t a bad analogy for the rest of the restaurant, either. Giant cogwheels, some moving, some stationary, line the walls and make up some of the chairs. Steam can be seen emanating from pipes in and out of the kitchen. The whole place is lit in warm colors. Unlike the rest of the district, the fact you’re inside a mountain is made very well known here. The walls proudly display their stony texture, with a few ores exposed here and there for decorative effect.

The group travels upstairs. The air seems to be easier to breathe now. More tables are visible, some already being seated. The waiter leaves them on a platform near a giant axle in the center of the place. The axle rises from a rather large hole in the ground, burning embers lying many meters below. The hole is stagnant at first. Then, a gust of hot air emerges, sparks from a newly lit fire below barely missing the couple’s feet. Seconds later, a dragon emerges. The girl is horrified; the boy grips her hand and the two take a huge step back.

“Hey, you made it!” The dragon speaks in a surprisingly soft, almost comical voice. “Welcome to Snapdragon’s. It’s great seeing you again, Gabriel.”

“You know this dragon?”, she asks Gabriel.

“We go back a bit.”

The dragon turns to her. “Ah, this must be your ladyfriend. What’s your name?”

“Ruby,” she responds hesitantly.

“Pleasure to meet you.” The dragon whips his tail around and slowly places its tip in front of her. “Don’t worry, it’s prehensile.”

She stands there, a little bewildered. Gabriel motions for Ruby to shake it like a hand. She does, and the dragon smiles.

“I’ll take you to your seats. I saved the best in the house for you two.”

The dragon walks them further through the restaurant. The place is surprisingly spacious, and the dragon isn’t too large - about the size of a minivan - so he walks ahead of them with little discomfort.

Gabriel and the dragon do a little catching up, while Ruby follows and takes in the scenery. She notices a piano played by an octopus-like creature in the distance, playing a calming and somewhat jazzy tune. A shadowy, almost fluid character stands by with a saxophone in hand. Parties made of smoke and scale, fur and feather, plasma and precious gem, sit at the other tables dressed in their best. She sees old friends re-uniting, family junctions, business dinners, and other couples out enjoying themselves.

“I got this whole place for cheap”, the dragon says. “It used to be a warehouse. The company folded a while ago and left some of their machinery behind. A dozen weeks later, I refashioned it all into Snapdragon’s.”

“Why a restaurant? In this part of the port, nonetheless?”

“Same reason as everyone else. The rent’s cheaper. The neighborhood is… variable, sure. But you can prosper here in a way you can’t downtown. You’re not under the microscope.”

“How’s it working out for you?”

“Pretty well so far. But, you know how restaurants are. Most of them close within three years of opening. Very few survive more than ten.”

“Have you tried advertising the place?”

The dragon scoffs. “I’m not the best at advertising, but we seem to do alright with the word-of-mouth we get.”

“Could you have made the invitation a little less cryptic, at least?” Gabriel laughs a little saying this.

“Yes, I suppose I could’ve. But then it wouldn’t have been as fun for you two to find.”

The dragon turns to look directly at Gabriel. Gabriel can see anguish in the dragon’s eyes, betraying the smile just below. He’s covered in a number of obscured bruises. The dragon’s voice softens further, and he moves in closer. ”I’ve lost a lot these past few years.” He looks to his side, then sighs. “A lot of things have gone wrong. Things I’d rather not think about. Things that keep me up at night. You’ve seen sides of me I’m not proud of.

“But through it all, you’ve been there. You’ve always been a shoulder to cry on, someone to look forward to talking with.

”There’s an old Earthlander saying: ‘Friends are like the stars; you can’t always see them, but they’re always there.’ I’d like to think that holds true with you. Our friendship has changed, but I’m glad to have it.

”You’ve done more for me than you can imagine. Now,” the dragon says, motioning to the balcony, “it’s time for me to repay the favor.”

The couple ascends the staircase to the balcony, and the dragon readies their table. Ruby and Gabriel take their seats, and are taken aback by the view. As it turns out, this warehouse was built close to the surface of the mountain. Our dragon friend broke through part of it and made a balcony with a view of the entire spaceport caldera. The digital and holographic displays of downtown turn into brilliant pastels on an otherworldly canvas. High-rises soar and show their lustrous designs. Even the advertisements, once a pedestrian’s eyesore, now seem like gentle brushstrokes of some greater beatific mural. Spaceships can be seen flying through the sky, reduced to the size of birds by their distance. And encapsulating it all are the other mountains of the caldera, rising like Fuji over the Tokyo horizon, painted shades of pink and purple by the setting sun’s light.

The couple is entranced by the view. Ruby reaches her hand across the table toward Gabriel’s. He notices, and reciprocates. The two’s eyes catch, and they both smile at each other in a way only lovers can. They turn once more to the landscape before them, taking it all in.

It was their landscape now. Theirs to share, theirs to enjoy.

❦FIN❦

I wrote this story a few months back as a gift for a friend. You can see it with some (temporary) assets and custom formatting on my website.

[jaeltree]

@fallowfinality

She used to fantasise about what it meant to be a mother. To hold her child in her arms and not have to worry. To have them look up at her for guidance, with her heart swelling at the pure admiration, love and trust. To have their innocent little arms reaching up at her to be picked up. To hug her as she cuddled back. A big smile on her face, kissing them on the forehead.

She wished she had that with Hasret. She wished circumstance didn’t ordain abandoning her son to her brother, where the family curse was left to fester delusion in him. Now Hasret— Mozenrath— was a powerful sorcerer. One who surpassed her brother, and had machinations for world conquest.

She lost count how many restless, tear-filled nights she spent trying to sleep. The cradle next to her bed, forever empty. Until she broke it. Throwing it against the wall in a fit of anger. Screaming. Crying. Curling up into herself.

She often wondered if coming back to the Black Sands was a mistake, but she needed to know. She needed to know if her son still lived, and if so, what he looked like. What he was like.

She heard quietened sobbing when she passed through the citadel’s hallway, and instead of finding her way to her guest room, she stepped into the master’s quarters. Seeing him on his side in bed, clutching at his right arm. “Hasret…”

“Go away!” His voice was so tired and raw.

She ignored his demand and walked in, sitting at the very edge of his bed. She looked down at the blankets that covered his body as his back faced her. He didn’t tell her, but it wasn’t hard to figure out he suffered from chronic pain. And, honestly, she wasn’t surprised. She placed a hand on his hip in reassurance, which he didn’t react to, before producing a small vial. “Hasret,” she swept a damp curl away from his face and behind his ear. “This is a milk of the poppy. I want you to take it, it’ll help with the pain and will help you sleep.”

He rolled over carefully as to not disturb his arm, and took the vial with his left hand. His eyes red and puffy with wet tear streaks staining his cheeks. She waited for him to down the entire vial, then kissed him on the forehead, shifting to lie next to him. Cuddling up to him until he soon calmed down and fell asleep.