#There’s nowhere else to go from there. she might be so horrifically shattered that i cant pick up the pieces and put them back in an—

[bbreature]

there is a very real possibility that i have to reset my character for season 5. Of course this depends on if i pull off the oku kill but it is a very real possibility…

[shutupanddance]

Bones / Reader — Remember Me

Hey my fellow fan fiction people, I have MAJOR writer’s block, and I really want to get these requests done, so I’m hoping that this will snap me out of it.

Warning: this is angst!!

How would Bones react to your death?

Normal text is present time, and blocks of italic text are memories!

Enjoy ;)

Dr. Leonard McCoy is experiencing a “slow day” in medbay. Not that there isn’t the occasional ensign coming in with a scrape or broken bone, but it’s nothing like when the away missions come back.

Speaking of away missions, you were on one now. You weren’t scheduled to come back for a week, though. You were a microbiologist, so your missions were usually much longer, and consisted of more time going back and forth between your lab on the Enterprise and the planet you were stationed on. 

The personnel staff realized pretty quickly that very little got done when you and McCoy were on a mission together. The doctor was so worried for his fiancé that he spent more time making sure you were safe than doing his job. So, it was a rare thing nowadays that you’d be put on a mission together.

Spock is suddenly in medbay.

“What are you doing here?” Leonard grumbles, glancing over his shoulder.

When Spock doesn’t respond immediately, he turns. Something is wrong, Leonard can tell. But whether Spock has a common cold or the ship is about to explode, he can’t tell.

“Captain Kirk requires your assistance on the bridge.” Spock states coolly. Odd.

“Are you sure? Can’t he just ask me through a holopad like everyone else-”

“Please come with me, doctor.”

Doctor McCoy follows, but he grumbles the whole way.

As soon as he’s in the elevator, another team rushes into medbay. They’re surrounding a gurney. And attached to that gurney is a heart monitor, which is beeping slow. Dangerously slow.

You’re not really sure why you got picked for the Enterprise. I mean, it’s Starfleet’s flagship, for crying out loud! But here you are, working away in one of the most advanced labs you’ve ever seen, floating many many miles from home.

You’re still processing all this when a beaker slips out of your hands, and shatters violently on the floor.

Luckily, no one else is in your lab right now. You stay calm, walking on careful feet, and retrieve a broom. As you’re sweeping, though, you realize blood is running down your fingers.

One of the shards of glass must have flown up and cut me, you realize.

You carefully wrap the small wound and apply pressure, then begin walking to medbay. 

The nurses don’t immediately notice you, probably because you’re just standing there looking like you’re out for an evening stroll, but soon enough one happens to glance directly at the gauze you have wrapped around your forearm.

“Oh, dear!” She says, guiding you to a bed. “Dr! Dr. McCoy!”

Out from a nearby office walks Dr. Leonard McCoy. He’s got dark hair, the most alert eyes you’ve ever seen, and damn he’s hot.

“What happened to you?” He grunts.

“Beaker broke. Shard of glass flew up and cut me. No other injuries, and there’s no glass in the wound. I was able to stop most of the bleeding, but I think I’ll need stitches.”

An eyebrow goes up.

“Alright, why don’t you sit down and I’ll take a look.”

You didn’t know it, but in that moment, Leonard McCoy nearly fell head over heels for you. And all he showed for it was a raised eyebrow.

The Captain will not stop insisting that he needs a plan for contagious diseases on the Enterprise.

“We already have one,” Leonard reminds him.

“But will it work? Do we have one for different situations? For instance, if we’re docked on a hostile planet-”

“Are you trying to keep me from my job!?” Leonard asks, more as a pointed jab, but when the room grows uncomfortably silent, he realizes he’s right on the money.

What else does he realize? That every face in the room looks forlorn. And a bit defeated.

“What’s got everyone so depressed?” He asks, swiveling to see the entire bridge crew. No one answers.

Finally, Spock clears his throat.

“We wanted to keep you away from medbay while the doctor’s worked on Y/N.”

There’s a moment, a brief moment, where Leonard’s brain stops working. And he’s paralyzed with fear. But, it doesn’t last for long.

“WHAT!?!”

Jim steps in.

“She was injured on the away mission. Some animal we’ve never seen before came out of nowhere and attacked.”

Bones is trying to get away.

“She saved everyone else’s lives by luring the beast away, doc,” one of the crew is saying, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get to you-

The door to the bridge rolls open. M’Benga is standing there.

And Leonard has never seen the man look so guilty, so distressed, so sad.

“Watch the Coreolis Anjankus!” You say, pulling a red shirt away from a very poisonous plant. You pass him to Dr. McCoy, who pushes him even farther away.

“I thought you were a microbiologist?” He chuckles.

“With a minor in botany!” You smile.

You were one of the few scientists Leonard found to be cool under pressure, and the only one with real common sense. Still, despite all you knew about the dangers of every planet, you were always completely relaxed. If he was being honest, the doctor envied you (just a little bit).

“Tell, me, how did you get stuck with this motley crew?” He asks, eyes trained on the Captain, watching for any dangers.

“I’m not really sure,” you admit. “They just sent me a message one day asking if I wanted to join.”

“And you said yes.”

“Of course I did! Have you seen the labs on the ship?!”

Leonard laughs.

“I’m a nerd, I know, but this assignment is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

Dr. McCoy finds himself staring at you, suddenly. He doesn’t really remember how he got here. All he can think of is the fact that your heart’s not beating. That your body is mangled and bloody and despite M’Benga attempting to close the wounds, you look horrible.

It seems ironic, almost, in that instant. The woman who never worried about anything is lying mauled in a biobed. Dead.

The medical idea of death has settled in Leonard’s mind. No beating heart, no brain activity. But what he can’t wrap his head around is you being gone. You’ve  always been there. And, for a moment, he’s convinced that if he sniffles too loud, you’ll hand him a tissue. If he mentions he’s hungry, you’ll wake back up, dig through your duffel bag, and pull some food out.

But you’re not moving.

“Where’s her duffel bag?” He asks, voice as loud and cranky as ever.

Kirk hands your bag over.

Bones reaches in, and digs around until he feels something soft. A teddy bear. He places it on your chest, and lifts your arms to hug it. The soft fur stains with blood.

It’s a horrific scene, the one in front of them.

A village destroyed by a massive storm system. Houses leveled, fields of crops uprooted, and hundreds of people injured or dying or dead.

But you’re standing there, cool and calm as ever, handing out blankets. You smile gently at each villager who steps up, and ask them in one of their native languages what else they need. You direct them to different crew members who can help.

One kid walks up, so young you have to crouch to be eye-level with them. He’s alone. And he looks so terrified, so empty, that you immediately wrap him in a hug. He clings on for dear life.

When he finally let’s go, you begin to explain to him that he needs to see the doctor. He shakes his head so hard you’re afraid his neck will snap. You say some more words in his language, and reach into your duffel bag.

You pull out a teddy bear. The boy smiles, ever so slightly, and immediately gives it a tight hug.

You speak encouragement at him, something about bravery, and the little boy makes his way over to the medical tent with his head held high.

All this Leonard watches. You look at him. He looks at you. And for a while, an unspoken respect passes between the two of you.

He asks you later why you had the teddy bear.

“I always have one on me,” you smile sadly. “You never know when you might need one.”

The ship docks at Command, and the usual celebratory revelries aren’t being heard. The crew is somber.

Your body, encased in a beautiful casket, is loaded onto a small carrier vehicle. Jim, Leonard, and Spock follow it as it weaves its way through the halls.

Your parents are there, and the funeral is quick. No one can really find the strength to say what they want to. No one can choke through their tears long enough to tell your story.

Bones is the last to leave. He watches your casket for hours, almost as if he’s waiting for you to spring out and laugh and kiss him, promising it’ll never happen again, promising you’ll never leave him…

He smiles. A memory-

The town of traders on this new small planet offered the Enterprise crew a place to stay overnight, and Kirk had agreed.

Their houses stood on stilts overlooking an ocean, and there were beautiful torches that burnt blue everywhere to light the paths. Bird-like creatures swooped through the town, twittering and squeaking.

You’re watching them silently through a window, a soft smile on your face. Leonard is sitting next to you on the bed, kissing your shoulder.

Two of the bird things get into a fight, and screeching is heard. Feathers fly.

You laugh, loud and unapologetic, as they tussle. Leonard laughs too. He’s smiling at you as you watch them, so completely wrapped up in how beautiful you are.

You fall back onto the bed, hair flying everywhere. You’re still giggling.

You look at your fiancé, enjoying watching him watch you. You feel comfortable. The house is warm and the blue firelight traces his face. The face of your love.

Leonard is wondering how on earth he landed you. How he convinced you to love him. But he truly has no idea. You’re lying there, eyes locked with his, gazing with so much love he feels he’s going to burst.

You lying there like that, hair spread out on the bed, a lazy smile on your face, eyes sparkling with the reflection of torches… he locks that picture in his mind.

And Leonard thinks that he’ll always remember you this way.

[theimprobabledreamersworld]

A Time Of Magic Chapter Two.

This AU is so much fun to write! And I'm glad people are enjoying it so far 💜 Here is the next chapter!

Taglist: @psychedelicships @jwillowwolf @lost-in-thought-20 @red-imeanblue @writerwithtoomanyships @spicycreativity (Hope this is okay, Spicy- just thought this would be the easiest way to keep you up to date!)

If you would like to be added to this taglist- let me know! 😊

Summary: ‘Virgil needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone that might help him find a purpose for his gifts. There is no one else I can turn to Logan. Only you.’

Virgil's second day in Camelot is even more eventful than the first. Can he get through it without getting into danger, or trouble?

Tags: Mild language, threat, death mention, weapons, food. Merlin/Human/Fantasy AU.

Word Count: 3,047

Read on Ao3!

Chapter Two: A Dark Warning.

'In a time of magic, the destiny of the mythical land of Camelot rests on the shoulders of a young warlock. His name… Virgil.’

Virgil heard the bells ring out within the castle walls and sat bolt upright. As it chimed six times, he realised how early he fell asleep yesterday. He needed to go and apologise to Logan for not being a very good guest. He closed his eyes and listened to see if Logan was awake. Luckily he could hear bottles bubbling and the sound of Logan humming a tune, so he got dressed and headed out of his room. He looked around, but Logan was nowhere to be seen, Virgil frowned in confusion since his bed was freshly made, but where could he have gone?

“Logan? Are you here?” He called out into the seemingly empty room. He jumped as he looked up and saw Logan perched on a ladder re-organising a bookshelf up a small balcony.

“Ah, Virgil! You’re up early. Good mor-“ His chipper greeting was cut short by an excruciatingly loud snapping sound as the ladder Logan was standing on caved in and he was sent flying backwards over the banister, hurtling towards an unforgiving floor.

Virgil acted immediately, without a word his eyes began to glow a rich, deep purple. Logan was suddenly moving in slow motion, buying Virgil more time. He frantically began to search around the room to find something, anything that could cushion the fall. His eyes glowed one more time and he dragged Logan’s bed across the room, he sighed in relief knowing it would be okay. Virgil smiled as he blinked and let the scene run in real time. Logan cried out before landing in a crumpled heap onto the bed . He stared in shock for a moment before patting himself over, relieved that he was not injured. Logan leapt up and stared at Virgil in fascination.

“How… did you do that??” He stared at Virgil, almost looking right into his soul. There were no words, Virgil just stammered trying to desperately come up with an answer that didn’t sound completely crazy.

“Did you express the incantation in your mind?” Virgil was trying not to panic, he knew that Logan wasn’t angry with him, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Uther about his magic… but he couldn’t explain why he could do everything he does, it just… happens.

“Where did you study?” Logan’s last question stunned him into silence. Study? You can study magic? Virgil had never heard of that before. He took a deep breath and finally got an answer in before Logan’s next question.

“I… I was just born this way.” His voice was timid, and Logan continued to stare at him, stunned at the unexpected answer. Hunith was right, Logan thought. Virgil really was a gifted boy. He glanced over at the open letter on his desk surrounded by vials and strange looking chemicals.

‘Virgil needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone that might help him find a purpose for his gifts. There is no one else I can turn to Logan. Only you.’

Logan sighed, believing his word to be the truth. He put a hand on Virgil’s shoulder gesturing for him to sit down at the table for breakfast. He walked away before returning with a delicate bowl of fresh berries and Virgil began eating them enthusiastically. He smiled with gratitude and when Logan sat down with his own bowl, his face had a serious expression on it, and Virgil couldn’t help but panic slightly.

“While I am completely and utterly fascinated by your powers. I need not remind you that you will need to be incredibly careful, especially while you are in the castle grounds. If anyone was to catch you, you would be executed without a second thought.” Logan’s voice was laced with worry, but Virgil couldn’t stop a bitter laugh escaping from his mouth.

“Believe me, Logan. I am well aware. I watched it with my own eyes yesterday.” Logan’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but he shook it off and just nodded sympathetically. He knew that he wouldn’t have been able to keep it from Virgil, but he hoped that he could have explained it to him in his own way. Virgil had only been part of Logan’s life for roughly one day, but it already felt like he was the son he never had, he couldn’t stand the thought of losing him already. He made a silent vow that if anything ever happened, Logan would try to protect Virgil in every way he could, no matter the cost to himself. Enough of that now though, he needed to create a distraction.

“Well, as you’re up. You can help me with my rounds! I have several draughts and medicines that need to be delivered to people who live in the castle grounds. They are all labelled, and I’ve put in a map with their quarters marked out. Make sure you tell Mr. Duill to not drink the vial's contents in one go… he tends to do that.” Virgil was nodding along in agreement as Logan began pottering around adding liquids to different bottles while watching them bubble and change colour. Virgil grabbed the basket and headed out, it would give him a good chance to finally acclimatise to just how large this castle was.

“Oh and Virgil. Stay out of trouble.” Logan called out as the door slowly came to a close.

Virgil took his time wandering around the castle, he explored the different passageways and climbed multiple staircases to look out at the town. Virgil stared in awe at some of the stained glass windows and the stories that were being told within the glass. He was surprised that he managed to find everyone on the list considering how much time he had just spent procrastinating. As he reached the final door of Mr. Duill, he remembered what Logan had told him as he knocked loudly. The man swung the door open violently and Virgil guided his hand to the medicine. He heard a pop of the cork on the vial as he turned to the man.

“Oh, Logan said don’t drink it all at on-” but it was too late. The man drank the small vial’s liquid vigorously like it was a tankard of mead and Virgil just stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” The man looked at him confused and Virgil just smiled as the man closed the door in his face. He sighed and slowly wandered down a corridor.

It was only eight in the morning, but Virgil was already exhausted. He sat down in one of the corners of the castle to take a breather. Despite the constant coming and going of the castle staff, it was actually quite peaceful. It must have been about an hour later when the same bugles from yesterday began to ring out across the courtyard, and Virgil felt his heart beat rapidly increase. ‘Not again.’ He ran out and sighed in relief when there was no stage and chopping block greeting him. Many people began to flock around facing the balcony as the King, Uther strolled out, that same smug look on his face. The feeling of dread was indescribable.

“As I announced yesterday. Twenty years ago today, we banished the Great Dragon from Camelot and lived in peace, free from the evils of magic. We also executed one more sorcerer who deceived you all and committed evil acts in Camelot. Because of this; I have decided to declare not one day of celebration, but three days. Preparations will begin shortly and there will be a grand feast in the castle tomorrow evening, everyone is invited. Let the festivities begin.” He clapped his hands together and everyone began to cheer at the news. Even Virgil couldn’t help but feel excited, it would be great to see inside the Great Hall.

A horrific wail shattered the joy instantly and Virgil looked around trying to find where it was coming from. A window opened and Logan looked down on the courtyard searching for the noise too. Even Uther showed a hint of concern. The crowd parted and there was a woman standing, staring at Uther with tears streaming down her face, the sorrow in her eyes was apparent. She was hunched over, wrinkles covered her face and her skin was sagged. Blonde, wire-like hair blew around her and the brown torn dress she was wearing accentuated how thin she truly was. She cried once more, and Virgil immediately felt sympathy for this woman even though he wasn’t sure why.

“There is only one evil in Camelot, Uther Pendragon, and it is not magic. It is you! I promise you that by the end of these celebrations, you will be shedding more tears than me. An eye for an eye... A son for a son.” Virgil’s eyes widened as he realised that she meant every single word. She must be Peter Robert Sclator’s mother, the executed man from the previous morning. He had to admit, he couldn’t blame her for being heartbroken… but threatening a King like Uther Pendragon was a terrible mistake. He looked up and was surprised to see fear pass through Uther’s eyes too.

“Seize her! She cannot be allowed to leave.” He roared while pointing down at the woman. Several guards attempted to approach her but she let out a shrill scream and they were thrown backwards onto the ground. She grasped a necklace securely fastened around her neck and her voice broke into a low and vicious tone.

‘Uranun caripe baglen ol. Gemeganza de-noan chiis gosaa. Zamicmage oleol ag-sapah arphe. Oresa ethamz taa tabegisoroch.’ Her arms were thrown backwards as she levitated off the ground and began to disappear. A harsh wind surrounded her body and lashed at anyone who attempted to come closer. As the final fragments of her ragged dress faded from view, Virgil smirked ever so slightly at the fact that she had left Uther looking powerless, but he recognised that incantation. It was Old Magic. Worse than that, it was Dark Magic. This woman was dangerous and she wanted revenge, he hoped he wouldn’t have to intervene… but if she harmed anyone, especially if any harm came to Logan, he would have to protect them, even if it cost him his life.

Uther stormed inside the castle, and Virgil glanced up to see the same window open with the same face timidly looking out. His eyes filled with worry. They looked at each other for just a moment, before the man looked away and he reluctantly closed the window carefully due to the cracks made by anger during the execution. He looked over to the next set of windows and saw an equally worried expression on Logan’s face too. Did he know her?

Virgil ran back to Logan’s quarters, and nearly collided into him in the process. Logan put his arms on Virgil’s shoulders, it immediately helped him calm down. They sat down and Logan waited patiently for questions.

“Who is she, Logan? Why is Uther afraid of her?” Logan put his hand on his head looking for his glasses, but he realised they weren’t there. So he sighed and ran a hand through his hair instead.

“Her name is Mary. She used to be something called a High Priestess of the Old Religion. They were incredibly powerful, and during the Great War… Uther was powerless against them to begin with. Only brute force allowed Uther to win, so she has many reasons to hate him with every bone in her body, but executing her son… that was the final straw.”

Virgil nodded, he could understand how Mary felt. He started to try and formulate plans in his head about how he could fight her if he needed to.

“I know what you’re thinking. You cannot face her, Virgil. We have not even discovered how your powers work. It’s too dangerous.” Virgil nodded again, he was right. It would be too reckless, he couldn’t risk being caught. He smiled, a silent promise was made between the two of them.

“Is there anything else I can do to help you today?” He had to admit that he enjoyed running errands for Logan, it gave him a chance to be nosy and look at areas of the castle others are not allowed to.

“No. Everything is done for today, but thank you for the offer. How about you have another wander around the castle? Have you seen the training grounds yet?” Virgil shook his head and listened as Logan gave him directions. He stood up and waved as Logan as he headed out the door once again. He walked down the now familiar corridor and walked towards a spiral staircase he must have missed this morning. Before he walked down, he peaked over the wall to check that he was definitely going the right way this time, he didn’t want another incident like yesterday. Virgil could clearly see the training grounds below him, and as he looked closer, his blood began to boil.

There were a group of knights, roughly Virgil’s age crowding around a young serving boy. One in particular dressed in a loose red shirt with silver armour on his shoulders and brown trousers with what looked like new brown shoes was spearheading the entire event.

“Where is the target?” The leader demanded.

“Over there, sir.” The boy pointed to the large target timidly, while the leader raised his arm in front of his eyes dramatically blocking the sun.

“It can’t be there… The sun is in my eyes.” The boy who was clearly used to being treated like rotten fruit just sighed and he walked over to move the target by picking it up. The guy smirked and turned to the others while saying he’ll teach him a lesson. As he was handed some daggers by one of the entourage, Virgil decided that he had had enough and stormed down the staircase to the training grounds. When he got there, the serving boy was running around with the target in front of him, desperately trying to avoid being hit. The guy kept throwing dagger after dagger at the target while the others laughed at the boy’s expense. As the seventh dagger hit the centre, the boy tripped and the target rolled away with a loud clatter. Virgil put his foot on it, before taking a deep breath and letting a fake smile grace his lips.

“Hey. Come on now, that’s enough… You’ve had your fun, my friend.” The leader looked at the others and pointed a thumb at Virgil like he had grown a second head.

“Do I know you?” He swaggered over until he was standing directly in front of Virgil. Virgil had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid showing his disdain for the arrogance in this guy’s voice.

“Oh, I’m Virgil.” He held his hand out for the man to shake, but he just looked at it in disgust before rolling his eyes.

“So I don’t know you… and yet you called me… friend?” The guy paused waiting for an answer to his audacity. Virgil knew that he should have just walked away at that point, but he was too riled up, and this man needed to be taken down a peg or two.

“That was my mistake…”

“Yeah, it was.” The man thought he had won, and Virgil knew he was going to regret the next words that came out of his mouth… but this guy was a pompous prick, and he deserved it.

“Yeah… I’ve never had a friend who could be such an ass.” He mustered all the sarcasm he could and poured it into every word. The guy stopped short, and Virgil winced as he realised that he had absolutely gone too far. When the guy began to chuckle and readjust the armour on his shoulders, Virgil gulped, but he had gone this far... so he needed to roll with it and hope that he would give up soon.

“Tell me, Virgil… Do you know how to walk on your knees?” He was getting in Virgil’s face now, his arrogance really was overpowering.

“No.”

“Would you like me to show you?” He took a step towards Virgil and he stepped back so he couldn’t be grabbed unexpectantly.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Virgil shook his head, he shouldn’t be making threats but he couldn’t contain his irritation any longer. The guy laughed loudly in his face, and his entourage joined in boosting the guy’s ego even more.

“Really? What are you going to do to me?” He held his arms out in an antagonising fashion, encouraging Virgil to make the first move. He had to clench his fists to ground himself, Virgil knew he couldn’t attack this guy, not if he wanted to live.

“Oh you have no idea.” Virgil muttered with a smirk.

“Come on, hit me! Weakling.” That was it. Virgil saw red and lunged at the guy, but he misjudged the distance between the two of them. There were gasps from spectators as the guy grabbed Virgil’s arm and twisted it harshly behind his back.

“I could have you thrown in jail for that.” The guy spoke directly into Virgil’s ear as he tried to free himself from the grasp.

“Who do you think you are? The King?!” Virgil shouted mockingly. Who did this guy think he was anyway?

“No… but I’m his son… Prince Roman.” Roman called for guards and pushed Virgil into their path. They bowed at the Prince before grabbing Virgil’s arms to restrain him. They dragged him through the castle and down a broken staircase leading to darkness.

The walls constantly dripped with water and the smell was repulsive. The guards opened a heavy metal door and shoved Virgil unceremoniously onto the straw floor before slamming the door shut behind them. He got up and shook the metal bars before angrily kicking them. He’s only been here two days, and he’s already made an enemy within the monarchy. Virgil sighed, he knew he wouldn’t get out today, so he took off his jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders before trying to sleep.

As the sun set and darkness seeped in, Virgil was sound asleep, but a low growling voice began to call out.

“Virgil… Virgil… VIRGIL.”

He shocked himself awake as his eyes glowed purple, he looked around frantically but there was no one there.

Who was calling out to him?

[hero-philia]

First request soooo... sorry If I'm not doing this right. Maybe Kirishima and/or Bakugou (or anyone else you thing would be fun to write) with a S/O that sleepwalks. Bad sleepwalks. Like, will walk out the front door, down the street and into a park kind of bad. My step sister did something like this when she was little. Her kids started sleepwalk now as well. =/ Its terrifying when you just wake up to someone just staring at you. More so when its a kid as I found out this weekend.

(A/N) - You did everything right with your request, sweetie! Sleepwalking really is weird thing. I’m doing it sometimes and end up rearranging small stuff in my room without remembering it in the morning. Waking up somewhere else must be so scary!!

-----

Challenges of the Night 

-> Headcanons for Bakugou and Kirishima with a sleepwalking S/O

-----

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

You told him about your condition quite early into the relationship to not risk a situation like him waking up to you sitting outside on the street without a warning.

In the beginning nothing really big happened, so he just took it as a part of you that is randomly popping up here and there. 

„I’m fighting stupid villains everyday. As if I wouldn’t be able to pull you off the street in the middle of the night!“

Whenever he found you outside of bed and in your sleepwalking state, he would tease you about it once you were awake. 

„Last night you were standing in front of the fridge, mumbling something about how mint chocolate chip ice cream is the best in the world. What the fuck, (Y/N)?!“

Nevertheless he would always make sure to lock every door, every window, every whatever to lower the risk of you accidentally walking out without him noticing it.

But one particular night, about a year after moving in together, he went through a situation that taught him one thing - To never wake a sleepwaker, something he hadn’t done before.

He had woken up to an empty second half of the bed, which you were usually occupying when you weren’t suffocation him with cuddles. Thanks to a long day at work he hadn’t noticed how you had left the room, but he nearly had fallen back to sleep.

Then he had heard shattering from another room and had been up to his feet within seconds.

In the kitchen you had been somehow setting an invisible table with pretty much real plates, that obviously had fallen down once you had let go of them.

Pieces of porcelain everywhere, you standing in the middle of it barefoot, him forgetting about absolutely everything and most important his senses due to his tiredness, he had screamed at you.

„(Y/N), WHAT IN ALL MIGHT’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?!“

The empty look in your eyes when you had stopped your motions before they had lightened up for the tininess of a mere second, had directly made its way to the top of the most horrific things he had ever witnessed in life.

In second place was the next moment - Your body had gone limp after you had looked at him like a deer in headlights. Bakugou had never jumped to the other side of the kitchen counter that quickly to catch you.

He had cut his feet on the newly shattered plates while carrying you to the bedroom, but hadn’t cared about it.

Very early in the morning he had left your side to clean up the kitchen, so you wouldn’t see the mess there. Moreover he didn’t really tell you about these events at any time. He knew that it wasn’t your fault and didn’t want to make you feel even worse about it.

„The plates? Yeah, didn’t like them. Threw them out in the morning. We will buy new ones.“

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

When you told him about your condition, you had to give him a big hug because he teared up out of nowhere. He just felt really sorry for you, even though he had been suspicious after your first ever sleepover at his place.

„That was why I found you sleeping on the couch instead of next to me! I thought I had snored, what a relief!“

Once you had informed him about the real reason, he tried to get as much advice on the topic as somewhat possible. As a hero he couldn’t let you deal with it on your own, right?

Despite all the preparations, the poor boy couldn’t sleep whenever you were sleeping over in the beginning. Every movement of yours made him nervous that you could get up any second to jump out of the window. He had to protect his most beloved person in the whole world!

The more nights without an incident passed, the more relaxed he got during sleepovers. By the time you moved in a shared apartment, he had gotten used to it completely. 

In the long-run he realised that he couldn’t do a lot about this whole thing since he wasn’t a doctor and his quirk didn’t give him the ability to stay on guard 24/7. As a replacement, he introduced two systems for you.

Number 1 - Comfort x 3 or how to make you feel better after especially hard nights 

You will know that something happened when Kirishima opens the door with a try of food and a glass of water. Because he isn’t the best cook, you usually get treated with your favourite sweets and snacks. Yes, for breakfast.

On these days you are allowed to chose the movie, which the two of you will watch in the evening after work. AND you get even more cuddles than usual. 

Food, movie, cuddles - The perfect trio.

Kiri also has invented a special method to prevent you from sneaking out at night, aka. Number 2 - The Kiri Trap.

What sounds like straight out of a horror movie, couldn’t be any sweeter! Every night he will hug you before falling asleep and hold you as close as you allow him to while dozing off. It’s super effective!

Once you move too much, it will most likely wake him up, which makes him able to react to it. Most of the time he will just lead you back to bed or pick you up to bring you there. 

All in all, super concerned about your well-being, but highly supportive when it comes to your dreams! Why should sleepwalking stop you from making career? 

„You are the most perfect and awesome person in the whole, big world! If they criticise you for your condition, come to me and I will hug you without an end!“

-----

Posted: March 18th, 2020 | Requests: Open | Match-ups: Closed

[fabulousarminsimp]

Name of love || Bertholdt x reader || Okay... This one will be sentimental. So prepare your tissue box. *sigh* ---------------------------------------------------- The world you always been so happy and proud of were shattered in this dreadful day. The day where chaos came for the 2nd time. Once, your world was so bright and so colorful with love, light, and hope. Now... all of those life you had before shattered into pieces with the truth of this chaos. He promised to show you the truth and finally revealed it on this day. The promise was he will show you who he truly is... The one who caused the destruction in Shiganshina – Colossal Titan. You thought he was just faking it because he’s a great storyteller. But, a great storyteller has a story that intertwines with his life that was never a fake. He apologized to you before this happened. He never wish to hurt you and the life with you before was a genuine escape from the dark mask he always wore. He felt free when he revealed the truth to you... but of course, at a cost. Here you are, standing right on top of the roof, gazing up at the wall where the smoke and the Colossal Titan showed. The titan kicked the gate open – letting mindless titans crawled into the district and wreaked havoc as well as deaths. The terror happened again and he showed it to you his true self. You believed him now... and your feelings conflicted. There was nothing you could do but stare. Even as your comrades shook you to wake, your mind was at a blank state. You don’t remember what transpire after he kicked the gate open, but remember you woke up reunited with everyone on one roof... including him. “{F/N}...” Bertholdt kneel down in front of you. You look up to him with hopelessness and tear stricken face. His face was pained when he saw you like this -confused and in fear. He saw your lips quiver and squeak his name in a stutter. All he could do was embrace you gently, whispering profusely “I’m sorry...” over and over to calm you down. “Is she alright, Bert?” Reiner walked over to him hugging you in a blank state. Bertholdt shook his head lightly. “Give me time, Reiner... Please.” Reiner stares at him with stoic face for a moment before turning around – eyeing him before completely walking away, heading towards Annie. Bertholdt stays there, still holding you gently with firm arms. He then lean closer to your ear and whisper “{F/N}, there is one chance where we can be free from this... I want you to trust me on this.”. You listen to him with half collected mind. Deep down you are still so madly in love with him, you couldn’t say no. Part of you still wish what transpired was a dream... All you could do was cling to him and give him the trust completely. Thus, you responded by grasping his jacket tightly with claws digging through to scratch his back. “I swear i’ll take care of you. Whatever it takes to be with you, i’ll gladly betray my fellow warriors... Neither of us deserve this... Even if i wish to come back home with them... I never thought finding you could change me this way... So, please listen closely...” he whispered. “There is only one chance we can be together... We’ll escape this place and find somewhere else to live. We’ll have to cross a sea of titans, but believe me... I’ll protect you. Whatever it takes...” “B-Bert...” you finally squeaked, “Tell me... is this a dream...?”. Bertholdt wanted to say no, but he doesn’t want to hurt the already pained you. “It’s a dream...” he lied, “But in this dream, we can be together the way we want... Free.”. Your eyes lit up from the answer and found the strength to pull away... and look him in the eye with glimmering hope. “Let’s build a future together...” you told him with sobbing voice. He forced a smile whilst gently wiping the tears from your face. “Let’s see the world and be free... Just the two of us...” “Yeah.” he nodded,

“Let’s make that happen.”. “Promise...?” “Not just promise.” he shook his head, “I vow and will definitely realize that. You’ll know it.”. You smiled back, then press your head to his chest. He stroke your hair in reassurance. He was planning on escaping and betraying Reiner and Annie. This was his plan all along. All the ideals he was taught from his homeland contradicts in this world. He no longer wish to live in the darkness that shadows his mind. He doesn’t want to become some tool for the benefit of those who hated this kind of world. He wishes to live like a normal person. Even if it cost the family’s life beyond the sea... At the very least, he saw the light of what the world suppose to be. In the name of love, he changed his path. ---------------------------------------------------- << Several days later >> You and Bertholdt survived the chaos in Trost. Most of your comrades you know did survive... but some didn’t. Your mind and sense return to your body, thus allowing you to think clearly for several days after. You chose to become a scout in the Survey Corps so you and Bertholdt could realize this plan to escape the world and live freely somewhere else. The only chance to escape was during the expedition. Bertholdt secretly planned rations and equipment necessary for the long travel, while you tried befriend the seniors so you could study the expedition formation. For several days, both of you worked under their noses (including Bertholdt under Reiner’s nose all along), conveying each other’s reports under the guise of ‘going out for a date’. They never suspect a thing... Not even Reiner who was always suspicious of Bertholdt’s behavior towards you. On the day before the expedition, you and Bertholdt took a day off and stroll to the outskirts with a basket for picnic. It was sweet moment, but serious at the same time. Both of you found a place perfect for a picnic, and thus began to relay the plans for the escape. “Here is the formation.” you showed him the plan you drew on the notebook, “Your position is right on the far edge while i’m right behind you. Perfect vantage for you to signal me whenever the time is right.”. He nodded with serious expression. “The only chance we have is when we encounter titans. I hate to say this, but... it’ll cost the seniors and comrades in the formation.” he explained. You pursed your lips – feeling guilty that you have to sacrifice lives for own selfish good. He saw your expression and patted your shoulder for reassurance. “I’ll find another way around. Maybe i can persuade the seniors to come to you for supply reasons.” “They might get suspicious, but... i don’t think there’s another way to evade them.” you told him. “I’ll have to fight to survive, but... i don’t know...” “Then run.” he responded, “All you need to do is run with your horse. Titans won’t catch up to you as long as you focus on escaping.”. “You mean... When titans come, i have to run and let the others be a distraction?” you asked and his eyes immediately went wide. “...I guess i don’t have any other choice...” Seeing you so quiet and anxious – compared to your quirky and bubbly self before – saddened him. Maybe once both of you finally escaped and found the perfect place, your mood will uplift. “This world is cruel no matter how you try to look at it... But i want to make that chance happen. Even if this plan fails, i still want to be with you. Only you...” he then held your hand and press it gently with his palm. You always feel reassured whenever his giant hand held you so gently. “Let’s make this happen!” you told him, “We’ve come this far. I don’t want to lose hope just yet!”. He nodded with a smile, “Definitely! We’ll make this happen for sure.”. Together you pressed your temple to his. The warmth and sense of hope surging into each other’s soul – making you believe that this plan will surely be a

reality. In the name of love, this future will be in our hands. ---------------------------------------------------- << The expedition >> The expedition was commenced. Commander Erwin shout the ‘forward’, thus leading his soldiers towards the field of swarming titans. So far, there are no titans in sight. But your heart is pounding so hard, it fills your entire body with anxiety. The vast open field that was supposed to be relaxing to see, only made it more eerie to gaze at. The horrific green... yet it challenges you to obtain your future with Bertholdt through this plan. In this expedition, you managed to bring half of the long travel supplies under the guise of medical equipment. None of the seniors nor your comrades suspects anything about the supply bag that rests on your horse’s back. After all, you are assigned as a medic in this expedition. “Titans sighted!” one of your senior shouted, “{L/N}! Fire the signal!”. “Y-Yes, ma’am!” You immediately grab your flare pistol, put in the round and shoots it up to the air. After the flare shot, you watched the titan eyed your team with that mindless hungry look, to which instills fear in you. Deep down, you prayed for Bertholdt to come... but he won’t be running here as fast like a lightning bolt for sure... “It’s targeting us! Prepare for combat!” “Junior! Keep your eye on the formation! We’ll handle this one and regroup once we’re done! Don’t forget to avoid abnormals!” “But, sir!” you tried to protest, but the two seniors had jumped from their horses. You are left alone to continue the road. The two seniors began to fight against the titan and swiftly cuts through the tendons with teamwork. It was surprising to see them in action as you ride your horse within the course. However, the amazing sight soon changed when a titan that walks on four appeared out of nowhere – cutting through the teamwork and obliterated the seniors within seconds. “No...! No, no, no, no, no!!” You slammed your feet to the horse’s belly – encouraging him to run faster as the titan noticed you. Even on top of the horse, you could feel the giant thumping rushing closer, and closer, then the shadow looms over you. “BERTHOLDT!!” you screamed from the top of your lungs, calling his name to rescue you. The thumping stops, but the shadow grew darker. You look back and saw the titan was in mid leap. It’s jaw open with dripping saliva... Only seconds left and your life is gone. But time stops as you watched the titan lunged towards you. You felt suffocated in the slow motion. Heart beats painfully slow as you saw the angel of death is beckoning right in front of you... ... ... ... “Rrraaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!” Time seemingly move in a blitzing pace. Once, you saw the dark angel looming over you, but now you see red droplets flew as the nape was cut by someone none other than your savior. You turn your gaze up and saw him in mid air – blade glisten by the dawn light and spread like an angel itself. He finally arrived... ... *THUMP!!* “Gyaaah!!” The titan fell jaw first right to your horse’s back leg and send you leap forward, then roll multiple times on the ground. Your gear fallen apart and scattered around upon impact, but luckily you got off with a bruise and cut. “{F/N}!!” Bertholdt rushed to you. He knelt and slides to reach you. “Are you alright?! {F/N}, talk to me!” he panicked and you groan in response. You lift your head and he quickly grabs you up. “B-Bert... Gghh...!” “I’m here for you – hang in there!” “You... finally came... *sob*” His panicked face eased when you gripped his sleeve and began to cry. The anxiety, the fear, the looming death was enough to bring all your courage to zero. That one second before death reaped all your hopes away... but it all regained when he arrived just in

time to the rescue. “It’s alright... You’re safe now...” he hugged you tightly – comforting you from the fear. “But we don’t have time to rest. We must leave before the titans swarms us.” Even though you still need time to cope, what he said was true. There’s no time for comfort as long both of you are in the red zone of swarming titans. Thus, you nodded with head hung low, and then he let you go and went to check on your horse. He saw the horse managed to get himself free from the dead titan. However, due to being struck on the leg, the horse is limping. There’s nothing he can do to the horse except take the supply bag and left it alone. Titans doesn’t chase horses so he can live free. “{F/N}, can you stand?” he asks. You lift your head – showing him your tear stricken face – then nods lightly. “I need you to do me a favor and don your gears. I’ll handle the supply bag and horse.” he instructed. “Okay... *sniffle*” With exhaustion and trembling body, you lift yourself up and jog to collect your gear. While you do that, he goes to your horse – grab the things needed before taking off the saddle and bridle to set the horse free. He then transferred the supply bag over to his horse after whistling him to approach. By the time he is in the middle of transferring the bag, you already donned your gear and test it out. “H-Huh...?! It’s not working...!” no matter how you press your grip, the hooks won’t shoot. “B-Bert, the hooks are broken...!” you told him in a panic. He spun and rush to you. Then, checks on your gear and saw that the fan was heavily dented. “It’s a no go...” he implies. “W-What are we gonna do...?! Without the gear, i can’t fight...!” “Leave it then.” “W-What?!” Without saying anything, Bertholdt took off your gears. “Wait! Bert, you can’t!” you tried to protest, but he doesn’t listen. He managed to take off all your gears and drag you to his horse. “Bert! Please, i can’t fight without it!” “Don’t worry!” he firmly told you, “Don’t worry...” his voice changed afterwards. “Bert...” “I’ll protect you. No matter what.” “But, what if there’s a swarm them?” you asked him – concerned if he fights an entire swarm alone. But, he turn to you with a gentle smile like he always show you whenever he wants you to trust him. A smile like the early dawn with soft breeze soothingly blowing from the horizon. “Everything’s gonna be alright... I swear. We’ll make it through this. Since i have the power, i can take them all in one blow, remember?” he assured you. He has the Colossal Titan powers to which the transformation could blow an entire land wipe clean. However, it comes at a risk of being known by those who are searching for them. Still, he would use it at dire times... and he honestly will protect you no matter what. “Come on. Get up on the horse.” he lean down and puts his hands together to help you up the horse. Without any words needed to be said, you put one foot to his hand and he lift you up so you can reach to the horse. After you are settled, he goes up and sat behind you – protecting you from any sort of danger. Both of you are ready to leave, but before he could do so, he spun towards the east and gaze the distance. His eyes glimmer with sorrow as he watch the sun slowly rising up to the sky. It is a farewell to the world he was born, grown and learn, then dove to the place he never expected to become. He is reborn as a new person, and now he’s on a mission for the greatest escape he had mustered. “Annie... Reiner... I’m sorry. Goodbye.” He said his goodbyes, then rode the horse with you towards the south. There is no going back now. Both of you decided to leave and challenge the extreme for an uncertain future. But, no matter what happens, in the name of love... he will be by your side. Always. Goodbye world. Our lined up silhouettes extends, but won’t meet. The wish and the

light I was searching for the scenery that i have not seen yet... The vast valley that was once supposed to be fearful and sorrow, now to you it gives you a sense of hope underneath the dust and sparse grass. There is always a light of hope within darkness when you look at it the right way. Could this be the right path you suppose to choose? There is no guarantee. However, you feel guaranteed by giving him your complete trust and heart knowing he will choose you over anything that he once stood up for. He was fed up by living in a lie. No more he will be forced to fake a smile when his heart says other. He sacrificed so much that it’s worth fighting for now. It was all because of you who woke him from a dream. A dream of which it was called a false world full of war and accusations. No longer he will be led and be toyed around... He took the courage, and now he is a free man. “Bert?” you call to him. “Yes?” You grip his hand and he switch sides so he’s the one who holds your hand. “Now that we set on this path... there’s no guarantee what will happen in the future as we go.” you told him. “I know...” “But, i know something now... I think everyone deserves a chance of life. Deserve a choice to choose. Even though we don’t know what the future holds, i want to cherish the time i have with you.” “I feel the same, {F/N}.” he pursed his lips – holding in the emotions inside him from welling up his eyes. His attempt to holding it in, however, was met with trembling voice. “We made the world into our enemy... We don’t know what will happen to us next, but...” Let’s make one promise “Promise that you will stay by my side till the end. I will do the same...” Bertholdt lips were quivering and the tears had fallen by now. Every emotions he had held from way before up till now, overflows like the river struck by the storm. “I p-promise. I’ll stay by your side... forever.” You heard his trembling voice and the droplets of his tear falling to your head, made you silently cry. “We will find a true place for us... We’ll meet again... Fall in love again... over and over...” you told him. Let’s call each other’s name that only belong to us Let's share the joys that only mean something to us Let’s make sure that our words meant only makes sense to us Let’s embrace each other’s pain that only we can feel If we can meet again in the future wherever in this world Please don’t forget About the truth and me

[charlemange1]

Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 5 What the Moon Brings

“What exactly is that?”

“A dress for Mama! She will need clothes when we revive her, Mr. Curwen,” I chirped, caressing the white silk. “Mama looked so beautiful in the dresses she used to wear. When I was a boy, she would always take William and I’s hands and race up the hills near our villa to watch the sun rise over the mountains. You should have seen her! When we went after a rain shower, the droplets on Mama’s dress would sparkle in the rising light! She was such an angel,” I wiped away fond tears. “William always tried capturing those shining droplets in his little hands, his expression was so precious when the liquid ran down his fingers instead! I cannot wait to relive those happy times. See here,” I hopped over to my assortment of dresses and toys and snatched up a carved spinning top to show Curwen. “I have been spending some of the allowance you give me on little trinkets I know will make them smile!”

Curwen moved aside a carved ducky with his shoe, unimpressed. “Pace yourself. We must resurrect Victor before we can even consider the rest of your family.”

“I know,” I sighed, returning the spinning top to the couch that doubled as my bed. Curwen had drug it and other abandoned furniture into a cleared corner of the kitchen for my sleeping quarters. I had hoped the move would cure the nightmares that plagued me in the library, but the devouring mass of tentacles and eyes followed me wherever I rested my head. Traumatizing though the visions were, I internalized my horrific dreams to save Curwen the trouble of mocking my senseless agitation. He was going to such great lengths for my sake and I dared not inconvenience him with petty complaints.

“I have also made you dinner,” I smiled, pointing to the readied fish platter on the table beside a smaller plate containing my own. “I spent the entirety of my allowance this week on some rare spices for us!”

“We agreed that you would leave all food outside my lab, nowhere else,” Curwen’s voice dripped with disapproval and my eyes fell back on the dress. “Do you honestly believe I have the time to waste eating out here with lesser minds such as yours?”

“Of course not, sir! But surely you cannot usurp the laws of nature on an empty stomach?” I pleaded. Try as I might to prove myself, so set was Curwen’s sights on high aspirations that he never glanced down to consider fellowship with little men like me. “Sir, you always eat alone in your lab, and since you are too busy for evening walks together, I thought this would be the best way to show my appreciation for everything you do for me…”

“That can be achieved by picking up my equipment from the docks every fortnight and minding my personal space,” Curwen muttered, though he placed his coat over the chair and settled down. I scampered over to the seat across from him as Curwen took his first bite and grimaced.

“This is far too plain, Ernest. You cannot expect me to finish.”

I slid the readied jar of salt his way. Curwen groaned and sprinkled it sparingly.

“You have your brother’s determination,” he shook his head with the first smile I had seen in weeks. “Nothing deterred Victor once his mind was set—for better or worse.”

My finger’s tightened around Mama’s dress at Victor’s mentioning, though I dared not speak out and ruin the first conversation I had had with Curwen, or anyone, in days. The gesture was not lost on my host.

“You should not hate him, Ernest.”

“You expect me to forgive that man?” I folded the white dress. It was the color of good, not like my brother. How beautiful Mama had appeared when the morning light lit her smiling face! “Those bright souls are extinguished because Victor could not let the dead lie!”

“Just as you are doing now?”

Ingolstadt’s unnatural silence filled the room.

“No. I am undoing his destruction,” I corrected.

“Two wrongs do not make a right,” Curwen’s white teeth flashed in the torchlight.

“Unless said wrong is for the greater good,” I retorted. The greater good. That was what I told myself the noises from Curwen’s locked laboratory that woke me in the dead of night were.

“Your brother said the same,” Curwen said.

“I thought you said he kept his life private?” I challenged, though Curwen’s glare silenced me, reminding me how much I owed this man.

“I did,” Curwen frowned. “But with time, it is easy to see into the hearts of the company you keep. Victor arrived at Ingolstadt broken enough to seek out the unorthodox. Your mother’s death crushed him. He cared deeply for those he left in Geneva.”

“Not enough to write,” my default complaint faltered on my tongue.

“You can hardly blame one for being swept up in their work,” Curwen idly brushed some blueish powder off his shirt.

“Do you ever write to your family in America?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

“Having moved among far more potent entities, what use have I for the likes of them?” Curwen laughed sardonically. “Why go back on nearly nine years of blissful silence?”

“Nine years?” I gagged.

“Salem is trapped between woodlands and ocean, there is little opportunity for fine education in America,” Curwen sniffed, banging his fist on the table. “Europe is far richer in its secrets. Secrets my weak-minded kin lack the constitution to grasp.”

“Indeed,” I said slowly, thinking of that lonely letter. Someone had wanted to block Victor from reaching out to us. Someone who cared little for family relations. “It is dusk. I should start for the docks if I hope to receive the next shipment.”

**

My second horse resided in an abandoned barn a great distance from the frightening presence of the university. Curwen had made a habit of seeing me off and waiting for my return to help pull the wagon the rest of the way. Tonight was no different, and I settled into my routine as I rode to the secluded waterfront where the old captain waited with his hat hiding his eyes. Neither he nor the sailors mocked me as I paid up, a change I was to grateful to question until the masks were flung aside and a dozen muskets forced me to the ground. The ‘captain’ stepped into the torchlight, boasting a far more menacing figure than the shriveled man I had grown accustomed too. Beneath the familiar coat stretched over wide shoulders, I glimpsed a shirt buttoned unevenly. It was Button Boy from the tavern, and he had acquired several new friends.

“Beautiful night for a stroll, eh Monsieur Frankenstein?” he sneered.

“It was. The pitchforks and muskets ruined the mood, I fear,” I muttered as two men held me down in the dirt.

“Tell me, Ernest, what business do you have wandering out after dark? Your clattering wagon could wake the dead.” Not expecting a response, Button Boy turned to another ‘sailor’ with glasses halfway down his crooked nose. “See your honor, I told you we could mimic those outlaws and he would be too foolish to know the difference!”

I was just happy they were not laughing at me!

“Where is the captain?” I croaked, looking around the silent bank.

“Where all the killers go,” Button Boy traced an imaginary line across his throat.

“Killers?”

“Feinting ignorance will not save you,” Button Boy snarled. The captain’s coat slumped to the ground as he knelt beside me. “Everyone in Ingolstadt knows what you Frankenstein’s are about,” his palm opened to show the jewelry I had paid him earlier. “You conspire with the Deep Ones for earthly riches! Unhallowed servant of Satan, you will bring the devil’s work to our city no more!” He called to a man beside my wagon, “Split the crate! Show him how much we know.”

The man threw one of my crates to the ground and a group of three smashed the wood with the ends of their muskets. I held back a cry at the splintering wood, for each crack widened the gap in my heart that whispered I would never see Mama or any of my family ever again. My agony turned to confusion as what rested in the crate was not mushrooms at all, but more sealed vases. An angry kick shattered one and a dark red spilled out. After years of walking through former battlefields, I recognized the familiar scent of blood!

The captain’s remark floated to the surface of my skull and popped with a ferocity that rattled me—that is the finest chemical France has to offer! Only thing those hounds are good for.

“Paying outlaws to gather your wicked supplies?” Button Boy hissed. His face was redder than the blood spreading toward us. “Who were they? Fleeing refugees no one would miss? I doubt the specifics would keep a monster like you from sleeping at night. Rest assured; we will make this the last night you live.”

“Lock him up,” the man beside Button Boy tinkered with his thick glasses. “We have the evidence to execute him on the morrow.”

Button Boy nodded. “We will make an example of you, Frankenstein. Of what happens to those who play god.”

“You are mistaken,” I protested. My head throbbed from illness and shock as I fought to act on these dreadful revelations. “I would never stand for such heinous dealings!”

But Curwen?

The surrounding faces were contorted in a mixture of terror and rage. Not even Button Boy had a trace of trickery in those blue eyes. These men were homesteaders protecting their loved ones from villains. Villains like me, I realized with a shudder, as the spreading blood left its sickly trail of red on the stones. Even as they led me away, I knew I had to remain their only target. Maybe it was from shock or disbelief, but I could not expose Curwen to these men. His success was wrapped up with my family, and amidst all the lies and chaos, the image of Mama holding me in her white dress was all I had to cling too.

[syxjaewon]

part 2 ; vaster than empires, and more slow

the ship that hovers over the window of serenity’s front view aperture is a calamity, a disaster, a catastrophe, shattered into too many pieces to count, spread across about a mile-wide radius, its engine in three different places, its wings shredded like a tortured bird, metal and glass and fiber floating cold and empty through space. the light from distant kalidasa casts monstrous shadows, makes beasts and nightmares from every angle, giving more fear than illumination, and jaewon reminds himself that this is what it means to be doused in the radiance of a vengeful goddess, a hungry queen, a bloodthirsty sun.

henry and harper are on the bridge with him, standing apart from each other, their eyes locked on the scene before them just as steadily as jaewon’s, even if their sight isn’t as mechanically enhanced as his is, just as intent on the panorama, sifting through what’s really there and what might be illusion, what’s part of ‘the emerald dragon’ and what’s part of the cygni contra system. he has the scanner going, beeping out a radius around them, the signal desperate to pick up signs of life amidst the debris, but it’s difficult, he reasons, for any sort of wave to capture those readings, because of the asteroids, because of the meteors, because the belt itself is a hodgepodge of minerals and stone and every sort of interference imaginable.

that’s the only reason they’re not picking up anything.

“jaewon,” harper tries and he can feel her eyes cut to him, but he ignores her.

“we need to get around all this mess, there’s too much for the scanner to pick up on.” he moves serenity slowly through the cascade of rock and rubble, careful not to bump into anything larger than she is, mindful of the occasional avalanche storms that fall through this area. the cygni contra system is known for its turbulent formations, boulders knocking into each other, causing rifts and bursts, sending hundreds of smaller stones spewing outwards like bullets, hazardous to passing ships and nosy neighbors. he’s endangering them all, and his serenity, just by being here, by lingering here.

“we can’t get closer than this, we’ll hit something,” henry’s voice is solid, logical even if jaewon doesn’t want that right now. it’s true enough and the captain hates him a little bit for saying it.

but he needs to get closer, needs to see it clearer, needs to reach his hand out and thread his fingers through the remnants, touch the bow of this derelict, feel its pulse, feel its heartbeat, feel the cold from its corpse; to be sure, to be certain, to be absolutely fucking without a gorram doubt, because he cannot sit all the way back here and wrap his mind around the loss of this wreckage and everything it housed inside it. his chest churns like a sputtering engine, gold eyes glued upwards, every nerve in every cell in his body aching, yearning, tensing.

but henry continues, “we’ll need to take one of the shuttles, we could fly those into tighter spaces than serenity.” he and jaewon exchange a glance, heavy with the understanding that neither of them could stand back to something like this and jaewon remembers that henry knew saito for as long as he knew vera, working on the ship for a year before jaewon had returned from the war. saito is nowhere near as igniting as vera was, measured and calculated, unphased and immutable against the verse, but jaewon knows from experience that that’s never been something to stop henry from connecting with a person before.

he shifts the gears to pull back slightly, and then burns the engine at a low, parking the firefly a safe distance away, where the asteroids are small and few and she has a better chance of floating undisturbed. “harper, you stay here and man the controls, in case something large and threatening tries to poke a hole my ship.”

and just then, something pings on the radar, faint at first but getting stronger, as though it’s spinning into their net. life.

the captain is out of his chair and down the bridge steps like a gust of wind, into the hall and flying down the stairs to the cargo bay where the exosuits are hanging, his boots thundering across the metal as he runs, echoing through the corridors like serenity’s heartbeat pumping back to life. he meets henry in the left shuttle, already flipping on the dials and revving up the engine, lights flickering on and a hum vibrating through their shoes, and jaewon shuts and locks the door.

he turns on the communicator still connected to serenity’s frequency and tells harper, “give us the coordinates of that beacon.”

“jaewon, there’s two now. in two separate places. i think they’re escape pods.”

he turns away from the comm as henry pulls the shuttle away from it’s hook up at serenity’s side, and sheds his coat before stepping into one of the exosuits, fitting the legs on first and pulling it up over his pants, attaching the straps, locking the buckles, syncing the gear. “send them both. send whatever signs of life you get.”

jaewon dresses as henry drives towards the coordinates, wondering who else was in that ship with saito, who else might have survived, might have escaped, might have dodged death in its most horrific format. how many were on board, what was the ship for? why was saito driving it? what were they running from so distraught that they felt the only way to survive was a suicide attempt through a volatile asteroid belt? saito should have known better than this, he should have been smarter than this, even jaewon doesn’t peel his way through death clouds just to shake a tail-- there have got to be safer ways than that. how hopeless had they become?

there’s no definitive reason jaewon should think that saito is in any of those pods, but he’ll check every last one of them to find out.

so they spend the better part several hours collecting escape pods scattered throughout the area, focusing on those first before getting to the emerald dragon itself, finding three with life still strong inside and bringing them into the shuttle. jaewon is about to open them up and wake whoever might still be breathing in there, to check if any of them are saito, but henry doesn’t let him, reminding him that the life-support in the pod might be all that’s keeping them alive and they might need doc’s medical attention immediately; they should wait until they’re back on serenity.

most of the time though, they are sifting through tragedy, coming across too much ruin, too much skeleton, too many fragments. they find over a dozen dead pods and jaewon insists on opening every single one, no matter how mangled or destroyed the bodies inside them are, his eyes hungry, searching, clawing through the probabilities, the statistics, breathing a little bit harder after every one. saito isn’t in them. his fury climbs, his frustration tearing at the edges of his vision, the sharpness of him amplifying, his impatience growing. if he’s not here, he’s in the emerald dragon, but when they search the emerald dragon, and he’s not in there either. he finds more bodies, looking at them all carefully, memorizing the horror, the savagery, the looks in their frozen faces, their wayward limbs, the way the verse has swallowed them whole, the way none of them look like who he’s looking for. food for the reavers now.

for a moment, the gold in his irises peer up at the depthless black sky, dots of burning stars blinking down at him, his kin, his heart, his love, everything he’s always ever wanted, more freedom and space than any human could ever need, and he feels it yawn over him, extend outward from him, impossible, impossible, impossible. his sight is mechanically enhanced, but nothing can reach out that far. did the universe consume saito? is his body somewhere out there, lost in all that freedom, in all that void?

“we still have three pods,” henry attempts to console him with. “there’s still a chance.”

jaewon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mention about the odds of that chance, the impracticality of it, but they return to the shuttle and then return to serenity, his blood boiling the entire time, churning through his veins, every second stretching like a thousand years, every moment unbearable even as he bears it in absolute silence. he thinks about valluria’s sands, about valluria’s rites, the sound of singing and the scent of spice, about the pyres they make for the dead, the long desert, the long night, the jan’hazal.

when the doors open, adrien is already there, him, harper, and the little robot bringing the body trays with them into the cargo bay railing to better transport the survivors off the shuttle and down into the medbay area. “we still don’t have a lot of supplies, you know,” he warns the captain, something heavy and born of war-time supply-suffering in his voice. he’s used to this, but they both know what it’ll mean.

“hopefully whoever’s in here, they’re not in too bad shape.” he begins hauling the pods off each other, unstacking them. “henry, go fly the ship out of this belt, would you? we need to get out of here before things get tight.”

the first pod opens up to a woman with black hair and only half an arm and half a leg, passed out from the blood loss no doubt, her wound sealed rudimentarily by the pod’s freezing measures, the skin around the gashes burned and charred. jaewon curses and helps the doctor get her down to the bay, stung by how much she looks like sonmi, small and helpless and quiet. he doesn’t need adrien to tell him that there’s little they can do for her, a few bandages and some tourniquets cutting off her likelihood of bleeding to death, but doing nothing for the probability of an invading infection that’s already set in.

harper and jaewon leave her to adrien and his robot to deal with for a moment and head back up to the pods, opening the second one to find an older man, white hair, white robes, also passed out but without any visible, obvious trauma, his coma a possible side effect of the pod’s life-support. together, they bring him down to the medbed as well, setting him up on the side gurney carefully, harper getting to work on hooking him to an iv.

jaewon doesn’t wait for her, doesn’t pause for her, can’t hear her or adrien over the rushing in his ears, the blood in his veins, the adrenaline coursing through him like a storm; one pod left. he gets back up the stairs to it, unlatching it, unhooking it, opening it, his fingers claws, his teeth biting at the brim of his mouth, everything singeing, everything hanging above his head.

he pulls the hood up and feels the universe freeze, his eyes pinned down to the body of a boy, young, thin, unconscious, not saito, and all the stars around jaewon’s head begin to fall, begin to cascade, the sound of his own heaving breaths too loud in his ears, his muscles sore, his chest curling. not saito. there are no more chances left, no more options, no empty derelict left to sort through, no more pods to open and pour himself down into, pour his hope and his hopelessness down into.

how is he going to give saito’s ashes back to the desert, when he doesn’t have saito’s body?

suddenly the boy inhales like he’s never tasted air before, his eyes widening, his mouth opening, his arms jutting out, and jaewon realizes, a little belatedly as the other reaches out for him, that he’s holding a gun. “mittaga iso!” the boy screams, his hands lashing out, striking jaewon in the face with the blaster handle, shoving him backwards as he crawls out of the pod and rolls across the metal plating of serenity’s platform.

jaewon falls back but he’s quick to draw his own pistol, aiming it at the ungrateful whelp as he tastes blood in his mouth, his lip probably cut, his face immediately morphing into a rage, into a snarl, into a blaze. he reasserts his balance, standing up and stepping forward, glaring down at this fool who’s just woken up from a drench-coma like a hurricane.

the boy is dressed in too many robes, green and gold fabric drowning him as he struggles to stand, the pod’s efforts to keep him alive making him wobbly and woozy and off-center, like a newborn deer straining to bring himself upright. he sheds what he can of the mantle and uses the railing grip to pull himself up, too obviously disoriented to be any real threat, even with the blaster in his hand. “do meymasa?” he demands and jaewon sneers.

“you’re welcome for the rescue, you gorram idiot.” the captain lowers his gun even though the kid doesn’t follow suit, but at least he’s holding it the wrong way, his fingers wrapped around the barrel, confirming jaewon suspicion that he’s too oblivious to be wary of.

now the boy finally looks over at jaewon, dark eyes unsteady and unsure, absorbing him in the space their in, the cargo bay opening up around them and below them and harper coming up carefully from the stairs, her hand on her gun as well, although still holstered. “are you,” he tries to speak, clearing his throat, every dreadful, chaotic, confused emotion playing out across his features. “are you the other vallurian? the desert rat?”

“you don’t get to call me that,” jaewon tells him definitively. “my name is yang jaewon, i’m the captain here. you--”

“where saito?” the kid seems like he’s having a hard time breathing, a hard time thinking, a hard time standing by the looks of the way his hands are gripping the handrail, begging for it to hold him up.

hearing saito’s name come from someone else, a stranger, strikes at jaewon’s core like a blow, setting his nerves on fire, twisting in his gut like a bad omen. “that’s what i’d like to ask you. he’s the one who called me.”

“he told me he would try to get into a pod, he told me…” he blinks hard down towards the cargo area, as though remembering is painful. “did you wake him from one of the other pods?”

jaewon chooses to skip right over that. “how do you know him?”

the kid gathers more of himself together, as though he’s dragging shattered pieces of himself back into his body, as though he’s tethering broken limbs back to the core of his chest with tight fingers and unfocused eyes. “he works for my family. for my brother. he was gathering intelligence for us, he was in the imperial palaces when we were attacked.”

“palaces?”

the kid’s voice begins speeding up, like the words just falling out of him, vomiting up without hindrance, without delay. “we were escaping through space but they caught up to us and tracked us through the asteroid belt and i told them we should just use the mechs to get them off our trail, to fight back, to save everyone, but they fired on us too soon and saito forced me into that pod and-- and i could have beat them back, i could have fought them off, i’ve trained, i’ve worked hard, but saito-- hit me and shoved me in, and i just--”

“stop!” jaewon howls at him, cutting the waterfall of sound off, cutting the bullshit nonsense in half, none of this making any sense, none of this meaning anything to him, his voice ringing out with enough authority and power that the shorter male finally manages to look over at him solidly, just for a moment. “just stop.”

but it doesn’t last long for this guy, his mind still spinning, still spiraling, remembering too much and not enough. “wait, i have-- he gave me-- wait.” he stumbles down to the floor again on his way back to the pod, dropping the blaster and hunting through the corners and crevices of the bed. “saito gave me something, said to show it to you.” he roots around like his life depends on it and perhaps it does, perhaps it would if jaewon’s headache made him more homicidal than exhausted, if the gun in his hand stayed there instead of slipping back into its holster. 

the other male gasps slightly and holds a small digital stick up towards jaewon like an offering, like a relic, like salvation, like the answer to every question they both have, all two million of them, and jaewon stares at it for a moment, flashing back to the last missive saito had sent him, the one passed on from vera, last farewells, final goodbyes. he snatches it up quickly, taking it in one hand and grabbing him by the collar of his tunic with his other, turning and dragging the kid along with him down the trail, thick combat boots thudding. they pass harper, pass the doors into the aft passage on the top level of the ship, the kid tugging and struggling the whole way, but too weak and unstable, too deranged and floundering, to break free.

they pass henry on the way, henry who is stunned, henry who is startled, henry who is looking at the kid with something remarkable in his eyes. “endymion? is that you?” he asks, his brows furrowing, but jaewon doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t allow them a moment to reconcile, doesn’t give the kid time to reply back, hauling his ass through to the mess hall and only letting go once they’ve gotten to the table and jaewon has inserted the driver stick into his tablet.

endymion, or whatever his name is, clatters into the chairs, his fingers curling and clinging to them, and finally, finally, when he looks back at jaewon, there’s a fire there, anger, wrath, his temper striking as his teeth shine. “how dare you! what the hell is wrong with you?!”

but jaewon ignores him, jaewon ignores way he hates him, jaewon ignores the way harper and henry come into the room behind them, all eyes pinned to the length of his figure, the way he sets up his screen and lets the thing play, whirling and buzzing until it comes into focus. he ignores everything else in the universe right now as saito’s face comes into focus.

“jaewon,” saito addresses in the video recording, the setting familiar to what jaewon had seen only hours before; the older man in a bridge cockpit, flying a ship that’s breaking apart around him, things crashing and blaring and flashing red. “my transmission cut out, so i’m making this recording and giving it to endymion to give to you, because he’s the one that has to survive; i’m going to get him on a pod as soon i finish this. it’s important, alright? his name is endymion adakiel qalaedes jade fatherstone, he’s--” the ship in the video shudders and saito winces and grinds her around an object in his front view. they’re still running. “he’s the last of the zephyrian dynasty. i’ve been working for their government for three years now, for his older brother anjadakar, against angelan insurgents, and then last night everything went to hell--”

the picture cuts out a bit and buzzes as the ship takes another beating and in jaewon’s peripheral, he spots endymion shaking his head, his face dark, his eyes dark, confusion growing stronger. “no, that’s not-- i’m not the last… my brother was--”

“it’s the alliance, jaewon,” saito interrupts and the word ricochets through his chest like a bullet in a hollow, metal room, clanging around like a curse in his ears. “the alliance and angelan forces combined, that’s who’s chasing us now.” behind saito, jaewon can hear men yelling, people falling, screaming, dying. “i’m going to do my best to get out of this, but i need you to keep him on your ship, until he’s safe.”

“what?” both jaewon and endymion snap simultaneously, neither of them very happy about that idea.

“i promised his mother i’d do everything i can, and you, jaewon, you’re everything i can. he has to stay hidden, from everything, it’s important. i don’t have time to explain things right now, but--” again a crash, again turmoil, again convulsing, saito’s eyes meeting jaewon’s through the space, through the timelapse, through the havoc. “do this for me! i’ll contact you when i can.”

and then for the second time today, the veil between them goes completely black.

absolute silence descends through room as jaewon stares, burning, at his tablet, the equipment resting dark and empty in his grip, and a strange, maddening urge to shake it back awake rises inside him, to force it into telling him more, to force it into revealing saito more.

“no,” endymion says after the pause. “no no no no no, no! no, that’s not-- no you have to take me back, i can’t stay here, i can’t-- captain.” he reaches a fist into jaewon’s sleeve and jaewon shakes him off violently, the two of them glaring at each other, feral and vicious, neither of them backing off, neither of them any less of a storm. “i have to go back to zephyr!”

jaewon doesn’t even know what to say to that, his eyes blazing, his last nerve raw.

“i have to, my people are dying, my brother-- he’s still there, my sisters and my mother-- you have to take me back!”

“i have to think.”

“no! i can’t stay here, they need me!” the boy says it like a command, like an order, and jaewon nearly shoots him dead just for the insolence of it.

suddenly however, adrien is here-- when had he arrived?-- his brow creased in concern, his hands warily outstretched towards the newcomer. “endymion? you need to calm down, you’re going into shock.”

endymion acts like he hadn’t even heard him, shivering and half-insane, infuriated and stuttering all over his words, but angry, angry, angry. “they’re going to kill my father, everyone in the capital city is tied to the rocks, if they bomb the stronghold, everyone will die-- i have to be there, i have to save--”

“you need to breathe.” adrien, steady as ever.

without warning, jaewon throws his tablet hard against the wall, hearing it smash and crack against serenity’s metal, quickly stepping around endymion’s panic and adrien’s pressure, the intensity of the room too heightened, too thick, too choking. he heads for the door, his fists wound tightly, his jaw clenched, the sun seeping out of him through every toxic pore, the venom of his aura flammable enough to destroy a planet.

“captain! i have to get back to zephyr!”

“jae?” he hears harper.

“i need to think.” he doesn’t look back at her, he doesn’t look back at any of them, the mess of them, the tangle of them, even as endymion, his newest charge, suffocates under anxiety and disbelief, collapsing to the floor in the heap adrien warned him about, his eyes rolling back, his teeth locked together, angry, angry, angry.

            *********

the room is much too cold, but that’s the least of his worries now.

he hangs by his wrists in a nearly strangled position, his shoulders in a constant war to keep from pressing too hard against his neck, to keep from cutting off his own air supply even as blood drips into his eye and down from his nostril and into his clothes. he doesn’t think they’ve shattered any ribs yet, but they’ve bruised him plenty, broken his nose, busted his lips, given him enough to throb and ache over for a good long while, even though he knows they’re not finished. men like this are never finished, alliance dogs like this are never satisfied.

he spits blood down onto the floor just as the door opens and light floods into the dimly lit cell, the force of it blinding him, making him wince, until he can blink up at the silhouette of a tall man in a grey-cut coat, the lines of him sharp and precise as a drawing, as a knife, as a nightmare. “saito kyoji,” the low baritone announces to the singular recipient. “my name is salathiel godkiller. it’s time you and i had a conversation.”

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: “Scaling the Walls”

Originally, I started this one before the season four finale actually aired, though the idea and set-up were based on the promos, and I didn’t finish it until that episode had shown. Still, this is more my own idea of how the “Emma being trapped in a tower and needing a rescue” plot could have played out. I revisited it the other day and thought that someone else might also enjoy it on Self-Promo Sunday!

"Scaling the Walls”

By: @snowbellewells

Wave upon wave of pain racks her body, radiating through unendingly, nearly rocking Emma Swan off her feet. The only thing keeping her from falling to the floor in an unconscious heap are the chains binding her hand and foot to the stone wall of her tower prison. Her eyes slam shut, and she tries fruitlessly to press her hands to her brow, only to have the motion arrested halfway through by the shortness of her bonds. It feels as if her head may split in two if she cannot exert some pressure to keep her senses together, but all her efforts are for naught. She is trapped and will remain so, no end to her agony in sight.

A strangled scream rises from her throat, pouring past her lips out the window into the trackless woods surrounding her cell and reverberating off its walls. She feels her heart wrenching and shattering as this psychotically unrecognizable version of Snow White plunges her hand once more into Emma's chest and grasps, squeezing and trying to pull out her own daughter's heart. The fact that this is her mother, made bloodthirsty and malicious by some wretched curse, only makes the torture worse, as the face whose kindness Emma has always treasured grins wickedly and Snow throws back her head with an evil laugh. "Oh darling! If you think you will ever defeat me, you're living in a dream world. You as the uprising’s pathetic hope?!? Their promised Savior?" The words are hissed right in Emma's face as the clawed fingers squeeze her pounding organ tighter and jerk at it again, "It’s almost laughable. I am the Queen, and you will rot in this tower, unless you relinquish your lovely heart, and your magic, and submit to my control."

Emma is practically trembling with pain and exertion, sweat running down her forehead and stinging in her eyes, fists clenched at the effort it takes merely to retain awareness through this newest onslaught, petrified by what might happen to her if she slips away. She bites almost through her lower lip, trying not to scream or cry anymore – knowing it only brings this twisted version of Snow pleasure. She has also long since ceased trying to remind her mother of the truth, as it also brought only pain at previous attempts. It hardly bears mentioning that her magic is either not working or no longer accessible to her. She is certain that this Snow won't take that for an answer. Still, can't the other woman see that if Emma had control of her powers she wouldn't stay here at their mercy? Tears fall from Emma's eyes silently at the cruel, unknowing stare focused on her, but she holds back any sound.

The new Evil Queen twists her hand within Emma's chest, and Emma is sure she must be dying. A howl of agony tears from her throat against her will and echoes in horrible crescendo. The sounds of abject despair and torment go winging out the lone window of the tower to be heard for miles around by those who ignore the cries of a rumored hero supposedly suffering at the Queen's hand.

The heartless slave version of Prince Charming steps forward from where he waits in the shadows, hand outstretched in supplication as he urges his Queen. "Your Majesty!" he pleads fervently. "Stop, please! You'll kill her at this rate and never harness her magic for yourself!"

His dark haired mistress darts a dangerous, crackling, narrow-eyed look over her shoulder at him against the far wall, pausing only an instant before her hand shoots out and throws him against the solid stone, where he falls incapacitated. "Silence!" Snow White orders needlessly as he seems completely stunned into submission.

Her shuttered, emotionless eyes, venomous and sharp as any serpent's, flick back to her prisoner and gleam with cold intent. "You're going nowhere, Princess," she purrs, the title cruel and mocking with the inflection she gives it. "You'll die a prisoner either way. But how much more you suffer before I can gain your heart and your power is entirely up to you. Tell me now how I can accomplish this, and put yourself out of your misery."

Emma trembles helplessly where she stands; her abused, aching muscles stretched beyond endurance but unable to gain relief. She wants to cry out to Snow that she is not this monster; they need to fight together to escape whatever alternate reality Gold and the Author have plunged them into - despite knowing her plea will do no good. Though she senses she will need her magic before all is said and done, though she knows she must hang onto what strength and sanity she has left, Emma thinks that in this awful moment, if she knew how to give up her powers, she would allow the Queen to have them. She doesn't know where Killian or Henry, or any of the other people she has come to know and care about, are – if they have been brought along in this nightmare as well, if they know themselves, or if they have been changed. All she has seen is the inside of these stone walls and these horrific mockeries that should never be called her parents.

However, Snow White seems to take her quiet helplessness as defiance and she shrieks in wild rage. "Have it your way!" she yells. An almost electric pulse of energy erupts from the other woman's palm, and Emma feels it crawling through her veins, burning and scorching unbearably.

Her howls of helpless agony as she quivers in her restraints overlap on each other in desperate, unending climax, until she finally slumps, boneless and insensate in her chains, lost to the world.

~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Killian Jones does not know how he got himself roped into such a ridiculous venture. He shakes his head in disbelief once more as he looks behind him to the skinny, bedraggled youth with brown hair flopping in his eyes who follows him through the thick undergrowth at the forest's edge – 'more a fool's errand than a hero's journey' his mind insinuates as he recalls the words of the boy on his heels as he had looked up at Killian with a wide open expression of hope.

What had he been thinking, letting his sense of duty move him to follow this child off his ship, away from the harbor, and on this – what had the lad called it? Operation? Yes, that was it…Operation Swan's Rescue. He had thought himself long past dreams of being a dashing hero and undertaking courageous missions for the good of his people. That was all burned away in the ashes of a Pegasus sail and sunk to the depths with Liam's body long ago, when he was another man. Yet, he has never claimed to be wise or cautious, to do what makes reasonable sense, and he was not able to resist this ragamuffin's precocious grin or the somehow familiar twinkle in his big, trusting eyes, and so here they were, quite possibly chasing a mirage, a dream: a princess in a tower needing a champion to save her.

The lad certainly weaves a compelling tale, Killian thinks to himself as he pushes further into the trees and bracken, keeping well off the beaten path. Of course, he has heard the stories; everyone in this section of the kingdom – where the tower is supposed to reside – has heard of the Savior, the lovely being of hope and light magic, somehow born to the Evil Queen and her favorite plaything, then imprisoned by said mother in fear of her daughter's magical power someday overthrowing her reign of terror. Killian himself had always thought them mere fables – fireside tales to charm and entertain. However, this boy seems so sincere, and so desperate, that he finds himself believing the youth's words.

Beyond that hunch, the sense of trust, his mind cannot help but whisper, 'What if?" If there is truly a Savior, a being of Light and Good, who could restore this land to what it once was, to the beautiful, peaceful kingdom of his youth where he remembers running wild in the fields with Liam chasing him laughingly, where he wove daisy chains to take home to his mother and he could still bask in the love of her pleased, quiet smile. If the Evil Queen's rule can be brought to an end, doesn't he owe it to his people, his country, and Liam's memory, to explore every possibility? Isn't it only good form for one in his post to venture forth and make sure? Not only that, but if such a pure innocent is being held captive, if everyone knows and merely leaves her to such a fate…it twists knots of tension in his gut, not letting his mind rest. A fool he may be. He may be walking directly to his death, but his conscience will let him pursue no other course.

They have come to a stop at a running brook – refilling their canteens, slaking their thirst, catching their breaths – when a wretched wail of agony rings out in the air, silencing the birds and echoing off the trees in harsh, violent waves. Killian's eyes meet the lad Henry's, and they both freeze, horrified by the sound of such suffering. The anguish he hears in that cry lets Killian know for certain he was right to follow this quest. He must stop whatever is being done to this prisoner.

They take off at a run, unheeding of their safety or what they may find. Crashing through thorn bushes and grasping vines, panting with exertion, they both nearly go tumbling headlong to the ground when Killian skids to a sudden halt and Henry plows right into his back.

They have dashed into a deserted clearing, and there before them, rising dark and foreboding into the clouds, stands the tower. The grey stones are cracked and jutting, looking as dark and unwelcoming as must have been intended, and though his eyes search frantically along the base, Killian can see no way in.

Both pirate and youth stand frozen in uncertainty for a long stretch, until abruptly the cries of suffering halt, all goes silent, and Killian finds himself desperately jolted forward. He does not know if this will work, but he simply must take action. The imprisoned woman – according to Henry, their last chance – cannot be dead. They cannot be too late. Grasping at the rugged wall as best he can with his one working hand, he wedges his hook into a crack between stones. With one last glance to make sure his young compatriot is still with him, Killian begins to climb the tower.

~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Awareness trickles back to Emma with the scrabbling, scratching sounds of metal scraping along stone. Blinking her eyes blearily and raising her head from where it had slumped awkwardly on her chest, she vaguely determines that the strange scuffling is coming from just outside her prison's single window.

Emma scrunches her brow in confusion, trying to determine what new threat could be coming for her now. She knows that the tower is high, high enough that no fully sane person would attempt to scale its walls. For the few fleeting instants she has been free of her chains in the years it seems she has been held captive here, she was able to see out over the entire forest, well over the tops of the tallest trees.

Just as she is looking fruitlessly around the barren room for something she can defend herself with against this intruder, a metal hook and strong forearm fling themselves in the window and clutch tightly, soon pulling a messily wind-ruffled head of black hair and a belovedly familiar face over with them. Her pirate, whom she had begun to fear herself lost from forever, practically hauls himself though the opening, flopping onto the stone floor, chest heaving with exertion.

"Killian!" she cries out plaintively, so glad to see him that she doesn't even care how girlish and helpless it might make her sound. "You found me!" She begins to run to him, momentarily forgetting her bonds, until the chains jerk her back.

His head shoots up at the sound of her voice, startled blue eyes meeting her gaze. He looks unsure, as if he doesn't know what to make of her awe-filled greeting. Turning quickly in the next moment to stand and return to the window again, he surprises her once more by reaching out his hand to pull someone else up and into the window after him.

Emma's heart swells at the sight of Henry. Both her son and the man she loves are here at last, safe and sound and come to rescue her. Henry doesn't seem to suffer the same confusion that Killian does. Once the man has stopped brushing him off, asking if he is okay, and lets him go, Henry rushes to her with a joyfully relieved shout of "Mom!" and wraps his arms around her – literally bringing warmth and hope back into her cold, lonely false existence.

"You found me," she repeats, a dazed whisper this time, overwhelmed by the belief and determination her son has shown to get here, and the bravery he has exhibited in climbing a tower guarded by the Evil Queen's men, at the risk of his own life – for her sake. She squeezes him tighter, wishing more than she has in all the rest of her time here to be free of the chains so that she can really take her little boy – well, young man now – fully in her arms.

She can only chuckle and shake her head when he grins at her and says exactly what she should have been expecting, "Did you really doubt we would?"

Emma's gaze flicks to Killian again, where he stands back awkwardly watching the reunion. He scratches the spot behind his ear uncertainly, but then he meets her curious, searching glance. She is frozen when their eyes make contact, breath catching with emotion. Not only is he here helping Henry, but he came to her aid even without remembering who she is or what they mean to each other. She wants so badly for him to hold her, for the sort of passionate kiss they have only recently begun to allow themselves to set everything back to rights.

Surprisingly, as the moment stretches on, Emma can see something come over Killian's face. She holds her breath, hoping against hope that somehow what they have, the connection between them, has survived this reboot of their history and who they are in this fictional reality. As she has suffered here alone, afraid she would never see his face, hear his beautiful, lilting voice, or feel his gentle but inflaming touch again, she had come to realize the truth. She loves him with a depth that scares her. She has for a long time, but could never find the words to say it aloud.

Killian tilts his head to the side, beautiful ocean eyes squinting in concentration as he studies her face, almost seeming to look beneath her skin, into her soul. Taking a tentative step forward, he reaches out, taking her hand in his one, gently rubbing soothing fingers over her skin reddened from the heavy shackle. Reaching out with his hook, he smoothes her wild, tangled hair back from her face and over her shoulder; a familiar, intimate gesture he has made several times, whether he realizes it or not. "I know you, Lass. Do I not?" he finally murmurs, eyes searching hers for an answer.

It is as though he has stolen the very breath from her lungs and the words right off her lips. All Emma can do is stare at him, amazed by his unbelievable, inexplicable faith, and nod in affirmation. She can still see wonder and adoration shining from his face, directed at her, even if he isn't sure why. Can he still somehow see what he means to her in her face? Still feel what they have – or echoes of it – despite everything that has been altered? Emma finds herself willing to hope as never before.

Unfortunately, at that moment they are interrupted by the sound of several pairs of booted feet pounding up the steps to her cell, harsh voices calling about intruders and securing the 'mad princess'. All three of them whirl to stare at the heavy door of Emma's cell in alarm, knowing the pirate and young prince can climb back out, but that they have no way to release her from her chains. She can't escape with them.

"Go!" she urges desperately, trying to spur both Henry and Killian on. She cannot bear to think what may happen to them if they are discovered here trying to free her. The guards are getting closer all the time and her heartbeat is pulsing in her throat at the danger to her two most precious loves. "You can't be found here! Please!"

Henry's eyes show understanding beyond his years as he nods his assent. Clasping her hand tightly for a split second, he vows, "We'll be back for you, Mom," before he moves toward the window, swinging one leg over the ledge and preparing to go.

Killian's face shows no such resignation. His look is desperate, frantic to save her. "What happens to you when we go, Love? I cannot leave you to them!"

"You have to, Killian…for now…I'll be alright." She gives him a brave, if tremulous, smile, needing him to be safe, even if she is not.

"No," he breathes, shaking his head and not moving an inch, even when Emma hears the running footsteps halt and instead the dreadful sound of a key turning in the ancient, rusty lock.

Whirling to face the door as it swings open, Emma prays that somehow Killian will slip out the window after Henry in the nick of time, or that some echo of the magic she possesses in their real world will shield him from their malevolent foes. Of course, as they have been ever since she opened her eyes in this parallel universe, her wishes are ignored, and with cries of attack four of the Queen's armed black guards charge forward.

Killian steps in front of Emma swiftly, easily shielding her in a single movement. He pulls the cutlass from his belt and strikes down the first assailant with deadly grace; the movement a slash as quick and sharp as a jagged finger of lightning. The second opponent meets his hook and falls motionless at their feet.

For several tense moments, Emma's breath is stolen watching the lethal accuracy Killian employs, protecting them both flawlessly and without hesitation. He ducks the third attacker's strike, and the guard overshoots, running past them, stumbling and falling just in time for the pirate to parry a fourth henchman's blow. They engage for only the briefest flurry of sword passes before Killian has bested this one as well and kicked the unconscious man away. He turns sharply, on guard with the knowledge that one last aggressor is still waiting.

Emma wants to call out to warn him, spare him the shocked pain she sees flare in his eyes when he finds his last foe, but she can't – not with the guard's hand gripping her throat, cutting off her air and her voice. She shakes her head at her sailor, knowing he won't protect his own safety but merely lunge forward to save her. She puts out a hand in an effort to wave him back, urging him to think for a moment, fight as smart as he has been, but somehow Killian misconstrues her motion and lets his eyes follow her gesture. Perhaps he thought she was reaching out for him in fear, but he is distracted one second too long.

The guard stabs forward, arm pushing stealthily from under Emma's outstretched one. He catches Killian in the side, under his ribs, and then drags the sword blade across and up, slicing a long path through leather and flesh with sickening depth.

Those fathomless blue eyes snap wide in shock and pain and a gasp flies from his lips as Killian's forward stride draws up short. Having achieved his goal, the final guard releases his grip on Emma and flings her away. Emma registers that she is screaming, crying out for Killian, but he doesn't answer, falling to his knees and bringing his hands up disbelievingly to the blood flowing from his side.

"Let that be a lesson to you before considering future attempts at escape," the guard growls roughly. "I'll leave him with you, to be sure you understand the price of crossing our Queen."

The heavy door slams shut again behind him, and Emma stumbles forward, clanking chains and all, to fall beside her pirate, sobbing out his name and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him protectively the best she can with her limited movement, tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks as she bends her head over him, fearing he is already gone, the wound is so bad. "Please…Killian…I'm so sorry…" she murmurs frantically, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, trying to ease his pain and keep him with her.

It isn't long before she feels smaller hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a hug from behind, trying to offer comfort before crouching next to her and attempting to staunch the blood still pouring from Killian's wound.

"Henry?" she questions blearily, confused.

He shrugs, "I just held onto the outside wall right below the window. Luckily they didn't check for anyone else. When the fighting stopped, I crawled back in."

She shakes her head at his daring, but her eyes quickly fly back to her pirate. To her shock, he is also chuckling at her son, though the sound is rough and choking. "There's a lad," he manages teasingly to Henry, before a horrible wracking cough interrupts and she sees blood at the corners of his mouth when he pulls his hand away afterwards.

Emma's tears still fall and she begins whispering apologies in his ear once more. He only shakes his head, "No, Lass…don't….be sorry. You are worth it. You and Henry….will find… a way out…I'm…glad I was…part of it…" His eyes flutter closed and his chest heaves mightily to keep moving up and down.

"Killian?...No!" she cries out when his eyes fail to reopen.

"Mom!" Henry breaks into her panic, his hand on her upper arm pulling her back to her senses. "Mom, you have to kiss him. True Love's Kiss! It'll save him. It has to!"

It seems so farfetched that she hardly dares to hope, but Emma is out of options and desperate not to have Killian slip away in front of her. Tracing a hand along his jaw, she lets her eyes slide shut and leans even closer to his mouth. Just before she presses her lips to his, she whispers as she did once before, "Killian, come back to me."

A disconcerting pull in her stomach and a spinning feeling makes it seem for a minute as if the world has turned upside down and the floor has dropped from under her. Blinking her eyes to look around once the whirling sensation eases, Emma is stunned to find them back in Storybrooke, sprawled inelegantly on the pavement in the middle of Main Street. Her fingers are somehow miraculously twined with Killian's as he sits up beside her, whole and unharmed from the sword wound still fresh in her memory, and her other arm is wrapped tightly around Henry. The chains and her tower prison are gone, and she gapes like a newborn baby at her surroundings. Killian turns to her, a rakish grin on his face, and she knows both realities are in his mind too. "It would appear you saved me, Swan," he teases lightly, but real affection brims in his eyes.

"What would I do without you, Pirate?" she whispers, holding on tighter and trying to keep the quaver from her voice as she burrows into his embrace. It is long past time he heard the words, and suddenly so simple for her to add in a whisper against his heart, "I love you."

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @searchingwardrobes @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @jennjenn615 @bmbbcs4evr @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @laschatzi @ilovemesomekillianjones @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814

[ya-boi-hawkeye]

Taken Out

Stela stopped for a moment, leaning against a tree to wipe the sweat from her brow. Even starting early on Depredador, getting up and scouting before the sun had fully risen, was no guarantee one would be able to beat the heat. Both seasons, wet or dry, it was oppressively hot, the sort of heat that coiled itself around you like a serpent, scorching your lungs if dry and drowning you if wet. And right now it was well into the wet season, the air as thick and wet as the rivers. It didn’t matter how much you sweat in the wet season, there would be no dry, cooling breeze to offer support.

“Talk to me Girl.” Stela’s comlink crackled to life, Kane’s voice filtering through. Stela was silent for a moment, not answering her friend quite yet. Instead she pulled the canteen off her hip and took a sip. Only then did she talk.

“Nothing up North,” she said. “Motion trackers are all good, no new forces. Looks like we’re clear. How’s the East looking?”

“Nothing new happening with The Order,” her second replied. “But it looks like some of the trees are fruiting early. We should round up some men to start collecting, before any of the animals get to them first.”

“Check the South first,” Stela said. “I’m gonna start heading West. I swore I saw a First Order ship touch down in that direction, Upsilon-class from the looks of it. So you know it’s someone important.”

“Someone important?” Kane’s voice asked. “Here? On this little ball of mud in the middle of nowhere? I think you were dreaming, Girl.”

“I know what I saw, Kane,” Stela said. “Something big is coming, and I don’t want to be caught off guard.” A dream, he said. More like a nightmare. There were so many people who could be on a shuttle of that kind, and none of them were good. It was enough to make her feel sick from the moment it touched down, her instincts and The Force both telling her that something very wrong was about to happen.

“Just be careful,” Kane said. “I may be too far to come rescue you.”

“I will, Kane,” she said. “If I find anything I’ll let you know.”

——–

After an hour or so of patrolling the West Stela found nothing worth noting. A flowering tree there, a new rodent burrow there, but no sign of any First Order officers, or even any troops. After a while she stopped, reaching for her com and contacting her second.

“I’m not seeing anything, Kane,” she said. “Maybe you were right. Must have been a fals- oh shit it’s Kylo Ren!” She ducked down behind a log, her Force Signature winking out of existence, as her hand moved up to shut her com off completely, not wanting to risk Kane trying to contact her, and giving her location away.

Walking through the forest, on a game-trail just below where she was currently crouching, was Kylo Ren. The blood pounded in her ear, her heart jack hammering in her chest, and she had to hold her breath to keep from gasping. This was much, much worse than she could have imagined; of everyone who could have been on that shuttle why did it have to be him?

She knew what the protocol was, she had set it in place herself. If Kylo Ren was spotted, by anyone, the rule was that person return to base, report where he was, and return with the recommended amount of back up. The recommended amount being the entire rest of the kriffing militia, because Stela didn’t want to take a chance with an opponent who could freeze a blaster bolt in midair. Surely if everyone shot at him at once at least one would break through.

Stela knew what she should be doing, but now that she was so close to him she couldn’t bring herself to follow her own orders. Returning to base could make the trail go cold, could cause them to lose this chance. Stela could do it, she could take Ren out of this fight once and for all. Wouldn’t need to fear that he or his knights would come for her or her son. She could kill him, and send a real message to the First Order, to Snoke. Could prove just how willing she was to fight and kill for her home.

Slowly she stood from her crouch, her hand drawing out her machete. Watching him move through the jungle, she could tell the advantage was hers. His footfalls were heavy, and everything within a mile could probably hear him. He had no clue how to move silently, how to glide over the forest floor, barely disturbing a leaf.

Stela, however, did know how to do just that. She wouldn’t have been able to feed herself if she hadn’t. She slid down the hill with grace, careful to keep herself silent, and crept up behind the man, struggling to keep from trembling. One wrong move, one misstep, and it would be all over for her.

When he paused and shifted, moving to turn around, Stela struck, driving the flat edge of her machete into the back of his head as hard as she could, shattering the weapon. He swayed and collapsed into the dirt, half on his stomach and half on his side.

Stela stood for a moment, breathing hard, her grip white knuckled on the handle of the machete. Finally, she got over her shock and dropped the handle, drawing her blaster quickly and pointing at her foe, in case it was a trick. She inched closer to him and toed him over onto his back before jumping back, blaster ready. When he didn’t move, she leaned in closer to check for life, even though the Force assured her she hadn’t killed him. Yet even without the Force, the slow rise and fall of his chest gave it away. He was alive. Unconscious, but alive.

Stela swallowed and with trembling hands lifted up her blaster, leveling it with her helpless opponent’s heart.

She knew she should do it. Just put a blaster bolt in him and be done with it, before he could wake up and hurt someone. Take out a third of the First Order’s leadership base, put a dent in their ability to keep functioning. All she had to do was pull the trigger.

But something stopped her. She didn’t know what it was, but an uneasy feeling made her reconsider killing him. It wasn’t because he was unconscious, wasn’t because he couldn’t fight back. She had done far worse than that, plenty of times. No this feeling was something else, something stronger that urged her to show mercy, just this once.

With a sigh, she holstered her blaster. Maybe it was right. Alive he was dangerous, but he could also be grilled for intel, could give them an edge they needed to win this war. If she could get him back to base, get him contained. If she could break him.

She looked over at her captive and frowned.

“I cannot carry you,” she said. He was probably just under a quarter of a meter taller than her, and much heavier judging from the bulk under his robes. Stela wasn’t weak, but she couldn’t exactly carry two hundred pounds of Sith through the jungle herself. She’d need some help.

Stela flipped her com back on, intending to ask Kane to come to her location and give her a hand, but instead when her friend’s voice came through, yelling.

“Stela answer your damn com! If you’re dead, I am going to ki-”

“Kane I’m fine!” She shouted back, cutting him off. “Kriff, okay maybe not. I think I’ve gone deaf in that ear, thanks.”

“Stela?” He sounded out of breath, and it occurred to Stela that her last transmission must have sent him into a panic. “Stela what the hell was that?! Why did you turn of your kriffin’ comlink, Girl?!”

“I didn’t want you talking to give me away!” Stela said.

“Well next time say that!” Kane shot back. “The last thing I wanna hear from you is ‘oh shit, it’s Kylo Ren.’ I thought you might have died!”

“Well I didn’t,” she said. “Far from it.” She smiled, even though Kane couldn’t see her. “I got him, Kane. He’s right here with me, out cold.” Kane went quiet, the only sound coming through the com being his panting breaths.

“I’m already on my way to you,” he said. “Hold tight and I can give you a hand. Be careful. If he starts to wake up just shoot him.”

“I broke my machete on the back of his head,” she said. “I don’t think he’s waking up.”

“Just be careful.” The link went quiet and Stela was left with her prisoner. She sat down on an exposed root, wiped some of the sweat from her brow, and took out her canteen to take a sip. Only to pause, her eyes drifting over to Kylo Ren.

“Idiot,” she muttered, screwing the cap back onto her canteen and going over to him. Grabbing hold of his wrists she dragged him into the shade, but even in the shade the heat was oppressive, and dressed in black like he was, in those layers like he was, he was in danger of overheating to the point of death. She had seen it happen before, in the old or the young, the sick or the injured, but make it hot enough and even someone in the prime of their life wasn’t immune.

First the belt, then the hood. Then the tunic, and whatever the hell was under the tunic. Kriff, did he honestly need this many layers?

“Really?” Stela asked, quirking an eyebrow when she reached the suspenders and the mesh crop top. “How is this in any way a practical outfit?” Kylo Ren, unconscious as he was, didn’t answer, and she shrugged, figuring that this was good enough. At least the mesh would let some air reach his skin, would help ease some of the heat.

Except…her eyes strayed to his helmet, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he would have trouble breathing in it in the heat. If the black material wouldn’t overheat and cook his brain. Reaching over, carefully, like she expected him to regain consciousness, she found the button to open the helmet and pressed it.

And he was. Human.

Painfully so, Stela thought with no small amount of disappointment.

Kylo Ren looked… young, she supposed. Younger than her at least, and definitely younger than she would expect for someone of his crimes. Soft, even, with the relaxed state of his unconscious features, framed by wavy black hair.

Stela didn’t know what to expect from this creature. Someone as wizened, as obviously evil as Palpatine perhaps? The mask and cowl hiding some horrific injuries, like Vader? Or maybe she thought he would be alien—humanoid but still other—or a cyborg. Some combination of the two.

But no, he was just some human, no more or no less unique than anyone else save perhaps, not many people sparked a new civil war and participated in the furthering of a fascist dictatorship.

Not many people wore thick, heavy black layers in the middle of a jungle planet either.

“You really are an idiot.” Stela decided, pressing her fingers into the area where she’d hit him in the head.

It wasn’t bleeding, thankfully. Head wounds bled a lot, she knew, even if the wound itself wasn’t so bad, and a lot of blood would be sure to attract the local predators. Stela didn’t know for certain if Force Sensitivity was something that vornskr could smell on a person’s blood, but she didn’t want to attract any of the packs that were known to roam the area.

While she waited for Kane to get to her, and it wouldn’t be much longer, Stela prepared her catch for transport. She didn’t think that he was going to wake up any time soon, but to be safe she switched her blaster to stun… just in case. If she wasn’t going to kill him—and again why didn’t she just kill him—she would at least make sure they could get some information out of him.

It was standard practice to keep the rope bound to her belt, especially when making forest trips; one didn’t know when they’d need to climb something, or carry something. And, though it was much rarer, one didn’t know when they would need to restrain a known hostile. Stela worked quickly as she waited, ears perked and body tense to react at even the slightest of noises as she bound him like game.

He was alone, and she wasn’t sure if it was stupidity or bravado that was the reason. A bit of both, she suspected; what could back up handle that the Force couldn’t?

Me. The thought came with a savage, heady sense of satisfaction as she leaned back on her heels, staring down at the man. You probably came looking for me and now here you are. Helpless.

A benefit to them either way.

She had been right, she mused, as she waited for Kane. There had been someone important coming down to visit Depredador and now Stela couldn’t help but wonder what came next. Logically she knew what came next regarding Ren; they’d put him in one of the storage sheds, farther out from the main bulk of the base, and dose him with Force Suppressants while they tried to get as much information as possible about the First Order.

But this wasn’t just some random officer—this was Kylo Ren. After he failed to report in, would they send out search parties? Would they send out the rest of their Knights to find him, or even, the Void Squadron? They would have to be careful going forward. That meant extra guard rotations, watching out for any abnormalities in the forest. This was a very high profile prisoner, and while Ren’s own reclusive nature and mysterious actions among the Order might buy them some time, eventually somebody would have to realize that he was missing.

Would they care though? That was the real question.

Stela knew—intelligence was free flowing, and there was a number of conversations to be eavesdropped on in the market—what the reputation of her planet was.

This was the place that General Hux sent people to die. Stela couldn’t help but wonder if that was what had happened to Ren. If the Supreme Leader, in his disappointment following the aftermath of the lost Starkiller base, had sent him here in the hopes that Stela would deal with yet another defective soldier.

It was foolishness to do so, if such were the case, and she didn’t take Snoke as an idiot.

No doubt the other officers would think so, and likely wouldn’t even bat an eye at his extended absence.

More the benefit for her then.

“Kriffing—fuck head—stars damn it.” She heard Kane slashing his way through the thick undergrowth, and her brow furrowed in annoyance at the noise he made.

“I guess we’re just abandoning all pretenses of stealth then?” She said crossly, looking over when he came to stand beside her, hands fisting on his hips.

Kane clicked his tongue at that, nothing but cheek even in the presence of his superior officer. “What are they gonna do, send Kylo Ren at us?”

Stela didn’t point out that they could easily be ambushed, that a handful of Stormtroopers could easily kill them and take Ren back, because she knew that Kane was—as is his nature—being contrary for the sake of it. To mask the worry, the annoyance, at thinking she’d died.

She appreciated it, even if she did want to put her boot to his ass occasionally.

“So, this is him huh?” Kane mused thoughtfully, crouching to inspect Ren. “Thought he’d be… I don’t know. More? Bigger?”

“Uglier.” She offered, prompting an affirmative noise.

It wasn’t that Stela thought the man was attractive, but he wasn’t what she expected when she thought of the creature behind the mask.

Kane grunted as he hoisted Ren over his shoulder, the effort obvious. “They feed him well at least.”

“Lucky him.” She snorted, no small amount of bitterness in it.

To have access to food, whenever, however he wanted it. If something didn’t appeal to his tastes, to be able to discard it and select another dish. It was decadent, excessive by her experience, where food was rationed so heavily that they were all just barely meeting the nutritional requirements. And it filled her with anger, that old, ever constant injustice of being forced to live on nothing but the barest of scraps while others got to flourish.

That was what she was fighting for, that among so many other injustices that had been forced upon her planet since before she’d been born.

“Hey, Stela?” Kane asked lightly, following behind as she forged the path back to base. “Quick question.”

“And what’s that, Kane?” The response came out almost amused, the slightest of smiles curling at her lip in a way that her friend seemed an expert at provoking.

“What the kriff is this idiot wearing?” That earned a bark of laughter from her, and she didn’t have to look over to see the annoyed, disbelieving look on his face. “Who the hell is stupid enough to wear all black on a jungle planet?”

A question she’d asked herself, and said as much, which prompted a string of complaints from Kane as they continued back to base. There was something… strangely lighthearted about it, which almost seemed out of place. As though they’d come back from a successful hunt, instead of taking one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy prisoner.

That was something she should show some pride in. It proved that Ren was mortal, that the First Order could be struck, could bleed. It would be damaging to morale, when, after they got as much information as they could, she put his head on a pike for all the world to see.

But first.

First they needed information. And to get information they needed to properly contain the threat.

“Security is already preparing the holding area.” Kane offered, and as they approached base, she could see the armed guards waiting, an escort with their blasters trained on Ren. “The suppressants are on hand as well.”

“Good.” She nodded, all business and professionalism as she squared her shoulders, stiffening her spine. “Drop him off and then meet me at Central. This calls for a meeting.”

“Stela what the kriff sort of stupid fuck shit idea was this?” Miles demanded, arms crossed over his chest and expression so thunderously furious.

Kane, always at her shoulder, levelled a warning look at him. “That’s your Commander, show some respect.”

“Thank you Kane.” She murmured, looking down at the medic’s report on their prisoner.

“Stela what the kriff sort of stupid fuck shit idea was this?” He asked with his next breath, swiping the report away from her.

Any gratitude she felt instantly died, and once again her mind helpfully supplied your boot, his ass.

“We have enough suppressants to last, and more than that we have the means to make more.” She pointed out calmly. “And protocols are in place should the worse occur. But I think… I think this is an opportunity we can’t afford to pass up.”

“Nobody knows the First Order better than Kylo Ren.” One of the intelligence officers piped up, eyes blinking owlishly from behind their thick glasses. “Well, except for General Hux, but he doesn’t join the field.”

“That’s assuming we can get any information out of us before he inevitably breaks free and kills us all.” Miles pointed out sullenly.

There was one thing she appreciated about the man, even if she couldn’t give a fig for anything else. Miles, she knew, wanted the best interests of the Militia, even if they disagreed on how to go about it. She knew his complaints were valid, that he made good points, even if she tended to take them with a grain of salt.

“We will.” She shook her head. “And if it feels like things are slipping out of control, I’ll kill him.”

Stela wasn’t helpless, and she intended to see to their prisoner personally. If things got out of hand, she had the Force—maybe her training wasn’t as refined as Ren’s, but he was on suppressants and she had lightning.

“Looks like you’ll get to find out.” Kane hummed. “Your prisoner just woke up.”

[nadjanatorresident-blog]

Crossing the Atlantic: A Kalagang Fanfiction

In this 2k+ drabble, the fate of Wolfgang immediately after the events of Season 2 is explored in a somewhat metaphysical format. It starts dark but ends on a positive note. This fanfiction was inspired by a piece of fanart I made in Second Life (see my blog or the end of the fanfiction.) Constructive criticism is welcome!

EDIT: Now on AO3. 

Crossing the Atlantic

Wolfgang Bogdanow had lost track of the time.

Ever since Whispers had stopped visiting him weeks ago—or was it days? Hours?—there was no clear demarcation between the lung-crushing awakenings in which his shuddering breaths were ripped out of him like rotten teeth—blood, tissue, and all—and his fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep in which he gasped for mercy, occasionally under the smug gaze of Lila, sometimes under his father’s shadowy grimace, and always under the disapproving stare of a blurry face he knew to be his own. Buried deep in the chrome labyrinth of BPO’s testing facility, he might as well have been buried six feet under the ground. The only reminder that he was tethered to this earth and not drifting in the abyss of death were the leather straps that bound him to the table. His skin chafed and bled from the friction of his futile attempts to break loose. But those attempts had ceased.

What was the point? His cluster was dead. Kala was dead.

“And you killed her,” said the blurry face. “Led him to her like a wolf to a lamb.”

The image of Kala sprawled out and terrified in the airport flashed before him, followed by the image of seven bodies on the floor simultaneously convulsing in a macabre orgy of pain.

His hope had not died there. No, upon waking to another hour in the operating room, he had sensed Will on the table with him, sharing the shocks, tasting the blood that caked his nostrils and lips like igneous rock. Briefly he had thought of grabbing onto Will and breaking through to wherever his real body was, just so he could beg him and Riley to save Kala. But that was exactly what Whispers wanted. With the Traceworks on his head, any thought was a crime. Then again, he was a criminal. Criminality died hard, for only moments after the hazsuits had stopped applying the paddles did Wolfgang reach into the psycellium, groping for Kala, for Lito, for Capheus, for anyone. Nothing greeted him but a brick wall. It briefly occurred to him that his cluster-mates might be on blockers, but as he was thrust back into his body and all its torments, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Trying to block me, are you?” Whispers had taunted. “How valiant.”

Then came another shock, shared with no one this time. His consciousness drained out of him like water out of a bathtub, and when he awoke again, it was in this dark basement room with no Whispers in sight and no Traceworks upon his head.

They’re going to lobotomize me.

The thought felt so true that he had no choice but to accept it as truth. He tried to remember if, in his last moments before losing consciousness, he had managed to break through the wall and exposed his cluster to Whispers. Why else would he be in this crypt and not in the operating room if Whispers hadn’t gotten everything out of him that he wanted? Whispers was done with him and he had been discarded. It then followed that if he was done with him, he must have achieved the horrific end that he told him he sought...

Desperately, Wolfgang had reached out for Kala again. That was when his father appeared, cackling.

A chill rampaged Wolfgang’s body. He was not one to believe in omens, but this face from the grave wracked him with dread. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t possibly be here in the flesh, and yet through the metallic tang of his own blood he smelled the stench of vodka and rot on his father’s breath. The only reasonable conclusion was that he was dreaming.

“You wish,” murmured the cruel, beautiful face that materialized beside his father’s. It was Lila. She smirked triumphantly and waved something red, silky, and tattered. “It’s over.”

It took Wolfgang several seconds to realize that the object in her hand was the lacy red slip that he had found in his suitcase—Kala’s suitcase—while packing for Paris. The slip had been ripped to shreds, and from the lace emerged writhing maggots. It was then that he felt--that he knew—that Kala was dead. Kala was dead, the cluster was dead, and he was alone.

Presently, the blurry face drew close to Wolfgang and blew a plume of cigarette smoke into his eyes. They began to water.

“It’s only what you deserve.”

Wolfgang grasped for the sound of the IV drip, for the hum of the ventilator keeping him barely alive, for the indistinct whispers beyond the wall of the hazsuits—anything to distract him from himself.

“Give it up. It’s just a matter of time before Whispers turns you into one of them. Any minute now.”

He thrashed violently against his shackles. It was not in any real attempt to break loose but rather to try and hit himself. The wheels of the table wobbled dangerously beneath him and squeaked in protest.

The blurry face smirked mirthlessly. “You know I’m not really here. I’m in your head.”

He tapped Wolfgang’s forehead with his finger. It certainly felt real, but then again, so did being visited by any of his cluster-mates—a feeling, he realized, he would never have again. At that thought, he redoubled his thrashing. His head pounded with each movement; his chest threatened to shatter; a fresh spurt of blood rose into his mouth; the IV needle ripped out of his arm; an alarm sounded somewhere in the distance. But he dare not stop. Not until he was dead.

Suddenly, the door to the room banged open to reveal half a dozen hazsuits, one of whom wielded a syringe whose needle glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights of the exposed corridor.

“This is it,” said the blurry face before disappearing.

The hazsuits crowded around Wolfgang, two holding down his arms, two holding down his legs, one pinioning his head to the table, and the last one approaching him with the needle. Only one thought crossed his mind before the needle pierced the side of his neck and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Will I see Kala there?

Death was onerous. Wolfgang never thought that he would feel so heavy, so bound to the ground. And yet, there he was, lying paralyzed like a tranquilized elephant at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean as dark, tumultuous currents whipped over his head and dispersed the little bubbles that issued from his lips. He didn’t know how he knew it was the Atlantic Ocean or how it was that there were bubbles when he wasn’t even breathing. It didn’t matter. Death was absurd.

It crept up on you like a little boy with a rope in a Berlin backalley. It stormed into your mansion and obliterated your henchman with a Molotov cocktail before riddling your head with bullets.

Maybe Kala’s religion had been right and there was such a thing as karma. He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t even move his internal muscles. He was locked in. What a fitting end for someone as restless as him.

The Atlantic, he thought. The name drew forth a memory of him and his mother sitting around a table poring over a map of the world. His mother had pointed to all the countries in Europe and named their names and capitals. Her finger stopped at the Atlantic Ocean.

“Wolfgang, did you know,” she had asked, “the origin of the word Atlantic? It comes from the Greek Atlanikos, which means Atlas, which refers to the Atlas Mountains in Northern Africa.”

“No,” Wolfgang had said, dreaming of some place beyond Berlin.

“Northern Africa. I’ve never been there. I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco, but your father...”

There was no traveling anywhere now. No more Mumbai, no more Paris. He was stuck here for good. Slowly, he closed his eyes and begrudgingly accepted his fate. No use fighting anymore. If he were to spend the rest of his lobotomized eternity reliving memories, they might as well be good ones. He tried to think of Kala. He imagined her diving into the azure sea off the coast of Positano. He imagined her tangle of black hair floating around like kelp, her arms parting the water as she breast-stroked deeper and deeper until she was only meters away from his face.

And then he stopped. The Atlantic made it feel too real. He opened his eyes. There was nothing but the swirl of the currents pressing down hard on him.

Or was there? In the distance, a black speck swelled. It was an eclipsed sun waxing like a moon. The black ball wore a halo. Was this some angel of death? Wolfgang strained his eyes, but the more he stared at it, the brighter it grew until it was painful to keep his eyes open. He squinted, and the halo expanded into a sea of light, engulfing everything in his field of vision.

In a searing white flash, the Atlantic evaporated, and he came unbound. He buoyed up like a balloon lazily drifting into the midday sky. It was like floating, only he had no mass. He was indistinguishable from the white light that consisted of all the colors visible to the human eye. He was everywhere and nowhere. He was endless. He was God.

“Wolfgang,” came a whisper. It wasn’t his mother, but it might as well have been for how fundamentally familiar it was. “Wolfgang.”

The words sounded as if they were spoken through cotton. Faintly in the distance, he heard the gentle lapping of water against tile. The sound moored him for he knew it all too well. The Berlin spa. The swimming pool in Kala’s Mumbai penthouse suite. The shower in the sparse apartment where BPO had captured him. The tub into which his mother had birthed him.

Birthed him?

He frowned. In that instant, he became aware of his body: the pressure of his brows knitting together into that well-worn groove, the warm press of a hand against the back of his head and a hand under his knee, the cool lick of water against his buttocks and scrotum.

“Wolfgang.”

The voice was clearer and more insistent this time. The voice was the light.

As his eyes adjusted, a face came into view. At first, it was only a blur—and he had the transient terror that he was staring into his own face again. But the moment the face resolved, the fear dissipated like breaths on cold winter nights. (Breaths? He suddenly realized he was drawing breath again.)

“Wolfgang,” said Kala.

She was almost nose-to-nose with him. Her eyebrows flexed and strained. Tiny tears almost indistinguishable from the the droplets of water adorning her face cascaded down her cheeks and formed plump bulbs at her chin that plopped down onto his nose. She smiled incredulously, and laughter bubbled in her throat.

Her lips opened and closed, tasting words. But none needed to be spoken. He saw his reflection in her eyes, and then he phased into her body and saw hers in his. He was at once both party and witness to his own rebirth—birther and birthee.

I’m alive, they thought in unison.

Something warm and wet and sharp like alcohol surged through Wolfgang’s nose and out of his eyes. Kala removed a hand from his leg and brushed a finger across his cheek to wipe it away, and on her finger he saw a fat teardrop perched like a songbird. His shuddered with elation.

Kala drew his face to hers and her warm, soft lips found purchase on his forehead, his cheekbones, his nose, his mouth. She tasted salty and sweet, and the faint scent of chlorine danced in his nostrils.

“Welcome back, Wolfgang,” said a man.

Kala released him from the kiss. The curtain of her hair drew back to reveal six pairs of feet arranged in a semicircle a few meters away, above the ornate pool in which he and Kala floated. Wolfgang followed one pair of feet up and was greeted by Will’s smiling face.

“Welcome back,” said Riley, standing to Will’s left.

Slowly, Wolfgang turned his head and acknowledged each member of the cluster one-by-one. Sun merely bowed her head and smiled knowingly; Nomi clapped her hands; Lito choked back a sob and reached his arms out to Wolfgang; Capheus ran toward the pool and was about to dive in when Will raised an arm and gave him an elder-brotherly shake of the head.

Behind the cluster, Wolfgang spied arabesque patterns in the tiles of the walls, alcoves adorned with shining metal vases, and elegant Moorish arches as far as the eye could see.

“It’s not Paris,” Kala slowly murmured, staring at him intently until he returned his gaze to her. “It’s, um, Morocco, actually, which is the safest place we can be right now with the chairman still searching, not to alarm you, but it’s not quite home—”

Wolfgang lifted his arm out of the cool water and placed a trembling hand on her cheek.

“Home is wherever you are.”

[cometsweepandleonidsfly]

“As the fifth and penultimate episode of Game of Thrones’ final season, “The Bells,” finished airing, everybody at my viewing party erupted in lusty boos. For many of them, the episode had betrayed any love they had once felt for the show.

That’s because “The Bells” is almost the entire final season of Game of Thrones in a microcosm — some interesting ideas, some cool moments, and some great acting, but if you think about most of what happened for more than a couple of seconds, it starts to implode. It’s better in theory than it is in execution, and it’s full of moments that are supposed to pay off years of the series, but fall extremely flat. (Hello, Cleganebowl!)

However, here’s the part where I’ll admit that even though I kind of liked it in the macro, I have a ton of complaints about this episode. It didn’t really make sense. And the show’s execution of the “Daenerys goes mad” arc is one of the most poorly handled things it’s ever done, especially if this was all part of a long-term plan (as it seems it was).

At best, it was foreshadowed by Game of Thrones’ scripts but undercut by its aesthetics (which constantly portrayed Dany as a folk hero). At worst, it peddled a weird spin on the idea that women are too emotional to lead. Either way, to quote a climactic moment on another show, “Not great, Bob!”

But boy, was the central idea of “The Bells” — to illustrate how war tends to spiral out of control into fire and violence and massacres as the conquering army rides in to overrun the conquered — a fascinating, compelling one, and one that factors heavily into George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire novels while largely having been avoided on the show (with exceptions). On a visceral level, the episode was a horrific ride through a world that has completely shattered.

Just, y’know, don’t think about it too hard, or for too long.

Here are four winners and 10 losers from “The Bells,” and the fact that there are so many more losers has less to do with my feelings about the episode as a whole than with how seriously grim it was (you guys, it was so grim).

...

Loser: Daenerys Targaryen

Honestly. What. The fuck?

I wrote a piece earlier this season about how I expected Dany to become the show’s final villain. I’ve read my colleague Andrew Prokop’s numerous previous articles arguing the same thing. And I am at least somewhat persuaded that Game of Thrones has been nodding in this direction all along by showing just how bad Dany can be when she doesn’t get her way.

So I’m ready and willing to accept the “Daenerys starts indiscriminately setting people on fire” turn of events. She’s ambitious and arrogant and certain of her own destiny. She knows she is the one who will set the people free, and she’s forgotten that “setting the people free” is her previously stated ultimate goal. There is room to work here.

But now. She’s a Targaryen, so ... welp! The idea that she’s suddenly scorching everything in sight because she’s trapped by her father’s DNA, by the mental illness in her genetic code, which has apparently largely come out of nowhere, in response to a series of traumatic events, when this is a young woman who has lost a husband and a child and so much else and been kidnapped and raped and all manner of things — that’s an idea Game of Thrones simply can’t pull off.

My guess is that Martin has some version of this planned for the ending of the books. But in the books, Dany is a point-of-view character, so readers are well-acquainted with the way she thinks about the world. When she takes a turn toward the fiery, Martin will trace every step of her mental journey. The show doesn’t have that luxury.

Should it need that luxury to work? For ages, Game of Thrones was so good at creating characters who were complex and conflicted, who sometimes didn’t quite understand their own motivations.

But in its last few seasons, it’s increasingly flattened them out into the most basic versions of themselves.

Now, Dany is far from my favorite character on this show. I’m using her as a bit of a shibboleth.  “The Bells” finds multiple ways to contort various characters in ways that make absolutely no sense, in the name of getting to the (admittedly fascinating) big finish. The episode sacrifices so many different ideas of who these people are — or even the idea of consistent character development at all — to get everyone to a place where Dany can go mad in exactly the way the show needs her to.

Loser: putting character development in the Previously On

The weird shot of Dany watching Missandei’s death from episode four, while a montage ofvoices swirled around her as if she was Marge Simpson trying to stop the Springfield monorail or something, felt like it was trying to set up her turn toward madness. Again: What. The fuck?

...

Honestly, I’m not sure why Game of Thrones kept Cersei around for this season. She had long been the show’s best character, but it seemed to lose interest in her for this final stretch of episodes: She barely appeared, getting sidelined in her own plots by a pirate who seemed to have arrived from another TV show entirely. Her death — and, honestly, Jaime’s death — felt like an afterthought, like the show suddenly remembered it had all these characters left on the board and it might as well bump them off.

...

After years upon years of hype, Cleganebowl aimed for the epic while feeling utterly inconsequential, which is maybe a great subtweet of “The Bells” as a whole. 

...

As it was happening, I realized I had absolutely no emotional investment in what was unfolding, beyond having a vague idea that I was sad the Hound couldn’t escape his own cycles of abuse and trauma. It played out in the most perfunctory fashion possible, though I’m pretty sure it would have sounded so much cooler if scored by the Doof Warrior from Mad Max: Fury Road.

This sort of sums up David Benioff and D.B. Weiss’s approach to Game of Thrones’ last couple seasons in a weird way — they’ve finally gotten to a place where they can put some of these huge moments from Martin’s future books onscreen, but they’ve struggled to lay the groundwork for those moments in a way that will make them land, which leaves them feeling stranded.

The show is still leaning so heavily on the character work from its first few seasons that it’s all but impossible for these scenes to sing in the way they need to, which leads to gigantic, epic visuals in service of clunky storytelling

...

Loser: the breaking of cycles

Much of Game of Thrones, thematically, has been about breaking destructive cycles — whether political cycles, cycles of violence, or cycles of oppression.

The show and Martin’s books have introduced a world where everything is built atop cycles that need to be broken, then brought in a bunch of people who are very well positioned to break it. (For more on this idea, check out Twitter user @chachch_changes’ thread on Cleganebowl.) So some portion of the ending will be at least somewhat hopeful about the possibility of breaking these cycles, right?

Nah. That turns out to mostly not be the case, and it turns out to not be the case in the most bitter and dark way possible, as Daenerys succumbs to what amounts to a family curse, the Hound plunges into battle against the Mountain, and Jaime returns to Cersei after seeming to swear her off multiple times previously. The one character who has a real chance at shattering these cycles is — sigh — Jon, which is probably why the series finale will feature some variation on “Jon kills Daenerys and then is killed himself.

Here in its late going, then, Game of Thrones is revealing just how cynical it truly is about human nature. Daenerys originally said she wanted to break the wheel — but she only wanted to do so in a way that would bring her power. And so many other characters ultimately don’t believe they are worthy of love, in ways that lead to their destruction. Aw.

So if you thought Game of Thrones was a show about making the world slightly better, about the slow march of progress, uh ... you’d better be a Jon Snow fan? Good luck in the finale!

Loser: the “Inside Game of Thrones” segments at the end of each episode

Honestly, these are the silliest things. Have you ever watched them? Scenes from the episode replay, while showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss try to explain what’s happening in them.

And the one for “The Bells” takes the cake in terms of having the showrunners tell us what we’ve just watched. They say, in essence, that Daenerys is triggered by the sight of the Red Keep, which was taken from her family, which prompts her to ... burn a bunch of people who had nothing to do with that? I mean, maybe. Sure. I could see it. But what Benioff and Weiss describe has little to no relationship with what we’ve just seen onscreen.

I realize the joke is on me for actually watching these things when I know they’re going to have next to nothing insightful to say about what I’ve just seen. But even by bottom-of-the-barrel standards of segments meant to discuss an episode you’ve just watched in the most superficial way possible, they’re so, so bad. Benioff and Weiss either don’t want to share insight into their characters or can’t. HBO should just dump these segments entirely.

Winner: horses

For when you absolutely need to get out of King’s Landing in a hurry.

Loser: anybody who named their kid Khaleesi

Every year since Game of Thrones debuted in 2011, we’ve heard about how many Game of Thrones baby names there are, and every year, I think, “Boy, shouldn’t you wait for the show to end?” This is why, people. This is why.”

[phantomwingbeats-blog]

Goro Akechi’s Past; a look at the P5 Detective’s timeline.

Some more thoughts about our detective boy under the cut. These, dealing with his past. Again, spoiler city. This one gets a bit heavy, since it relates to real world conditions in Japan.

...Over the course of writing this one, I’ve actually been surprised at the result. I ask anyone who has knowledge of Akechi’s full history to read this, if only to realize with me the full depth of what his life had. And how it’s a pretty direct deconstruction of how Japan deals with it’s biggest outcasts.

So. I’ve mentioned before just how fucked up Akechi’s childhood must have been overall. We know from his statements (and he wasn’t exactly likely to lie) that after his mother’s suicide, he never ONCE was able to make a connection with anyone else, always tossed aside and ignored, if not despised outright. It’s a bit surprising when I hear people downgrade the damage this could mean to a person, down to “waah waah someone notice me”, or worse, believing that his real intention really WAS to have Shido give him parental recognition.

But let’s expand on what “never making connections” can really mean.

We’re not sure how old Akechi was when he lost his mother, but it’s likely he was extremely young. His birth at all was a scandal, and supposedly plunged his mother into a despair-filled life from the moment he was born. Maybe, just maybe Akechi could have made a connection with his mother, and had something to hold onto... But he couldn’t. She was just driven deeper into despair, until she took her life. Why she was driven to it exactly isn’t clear, but Goro had nowhere to go but into the orphanage at this point.

If luck had favored him, maybe he could have been like Shinjiro. Made friends in the orphanage, connections, found people he could care about and bond with. But he couldn’t. For whatever reason, he was never given consideration. Not only does this imply no friends or even acquaintances he could count on, it meant everyone he came across actively rejected any attempt to bond made. For a child grieving over the horrific sight of his mother’s suicide? That would hurt. As such, the only other thing he could hold onto would be the knowledge of Shido. The knowledge of the man who ruined his mother’s life. Knowledge that would turn into a grudge by this point.

From there, he would age into a young child. Perhaps if fortune had smiled upon him, he’d be like Akihiko. Adopted into a wealthy family, or even just a family at all, granted outlets for his determination to improve. He’d retain his nobility, perhaps even a little of his childhood fantasy. If only he’d connect with some parents. But he couldn’t. Not one would take him in, leaving the boy to grow up fast and fend for himself. And, at about 15, Akechi would be forced out of the orphanage and released into the world, now legally able to work... And having to in order to survive while homeless. For the record, this is a real world problem. Thousands of children dropped into orphanages because their parents can’t handle the stress. Including the low rate of adoption overall, this means many children are forced out without a proper support system, resulting in deep systematic mental disorders and trauma, on top of homelessness. And that’s after an orphanage environment of violence and survival of the fittest, where the young get beat up by the elders.

So. Now Akechi is 15. Forced into the Japanese work environment with no prior schooling, no job history, and nobody to care for him while he gets on his feet, after a lifetime of getting beat up and forced to fight to survive. There is still hope for him, though. Group Homes are still very much a thing in Japan. In an effort to keep the population together, some of these would-be homeless children are taken in by complete strangers, raised as family because Japan believes so strongly in the concept. If Akechi could just make that one connection with SOMEONE, while he struggled to work jobs, study, and rise in the world, they could reach out and care for him while he got on his feet. By this point, he might not have been able to be stopped from going after Shido with the fury he has, but Akechi could still hold onto his respect for humanity. ...But he couldn’t. No one, not one person would grant him that wish. As such, Goro would now be thrust into the world alone, his only chance to escape the slums, escape homelessness, escape a life of nothingness was to frenzy himself into accomplishment. Discriminated against at work, as most orphans are. Pushed back against by teachers, like all without evident prestige. And yet, he would persist, with a determination to make Shido pay for what he’d done to Goro’s mother...

...And here, he would meet Loki.

Goro Akechi is 17 by the time of P5, probably 18 by the end. The timeline of events including the beginning of the murders, would put the birth of his powers around 2 years earlier. This lines up with his line to Akira, lamenting that he hadn’t met the protagonist a few years earlier, how things might have been different. Goro Akechi was 15, a shattered child desperately struggling to live in the cruel world around him, when along would come Loki. The manifestation of his will to live, to find his truth, to rebel. A determination so strong, it would prove to be potentially the strongest initial Persona in the franchise’s history, rivaling Minato Arisato’s Thanatos. ...And a sentient personality, able to impart upon Goro select knowledge. Not how to change a person’s heart to good, but how to drive them to madness... Or kill them.

Goro would then downright skyrocket through the ranks. From a homeless orphan without any support from anyone in the world, to a respected and intelligent detective in school and secure enough in finance to have his own place and luxuries? The man was determined, and regardless of how much he gained directly from Shido’s influence, he still earned his intelligence, refinement, self-improvement. It’s just sad what he had to give up to get there.

It pains me to write this, because it makes me acknowledge how broken the system of orphanages is in Japan, and indeed, most all the world. How even if most find some saving grace, some connection that can pull them to a better life, there will always be one, or some, or many, who slip through the cracks. The worst kind of outcast Japan can possibly look down upon... The ones without connections.

When you say that Goro Akechi cannot be instantly forgiven for his crimes, his murders, you’re right. He has killed, downright drenched in blood, and deserves due justice. ...But I cannot say a 15 year old child, who has gone his entire life without a connection, deserved what was forced upon him. Nor would I say the man trapped in a duel to the death with his mindless clone deserves no chance to live, to redeem himself. If not through some singular act, then jail time and penance.

Because I look back at how many times Goro Akechi had a chance at a different life, to find just one person able to save him from this path of dark, murderous ‘justice.’ ...And then I realize. How easy it would be for Yaldabaoth to keep him down this path. To take his mother’s life. To break his body in the orphanage, to break his soul in society, to break his hope in the workplace, and grant him the most destructive and violent power possible at the lowest point in his life... And then reward him for committing murder. Finally making people respect him. Letting the faceless masses see him, acknowledge him, love him... If only superficially. For a child who had gone is entire life devoid of connections... Even these false ones would feel comforting.

...The boy deserved a chance.

[newstfionline]

Trump’s order to ban refugees and immigrants triggers fears across the globe

By Sudarsan Raghavan, Louisa Loveluck and Kevin Sieff, Washington Post, January 26, 2017

CAIRO--President Trump’s executive order to tighten the vetting of potential immigrants and visitors to the United States, as well as to ban some refugees seeking to resettle in the country, will shatter countless dreams and divide families, would-be immigrants and human rights activists warned.

The draft order calls for an immediate halt to resettlement of Syrian refugees in the United States, rejecting visas for visitors and immigrant hopefuls based partly on their ideology and opinions. A copy of the draft order was leaked Wednesday to civil rights groups and obtained by The Washington Post.

“I feel devastated,” said Ibrahim Abu Ghanem, 37, a father of three in the Yemeni capital, Sanaa, whose father and two brothers live in the United States. “This means all my plans are going to go down the drain.”

If the order is enacted, among those immediately affected would be potential immigrants and visitors from seven Muslim countries--Yemen, Iraq, Syria, Somalia, Iran, Libya and Sudan--that are considered by the Trump administration to be nations whose citizens “would be detrimental to the interests of the United States.” For the next 30 days, they will not be allowed entry into the United States, even if they have visas and relatives who are U.S. citizens.

The order also calls for halting all admissions and resettlement of refugees for 120 days pending the review of vetting procedures. For Syrian refugees, the ban will remain in place until further notice.

Once restarted, annual refugee admissions from all nations would be halved, from a current level of 100,000 to 50,000.

For those affected, the fear is that the order will be a harbinger of even greater restrictions for Muslim immigrants, refugees and visitors--fulfilling Trump’s campaign promises of “extreme vetting” of foreigners seeking entry into the United States and installing “a Muslim ban.” Somalia, Syria, Iraq and Iran are among the leading countries of origin of recent refugees to the United States.

“It’s going to be devastating,” said Denise Bell, senior campaigner for refugee and migrant rights for watchdog group Amnesty International. “Refugees are not a threat. They are the ones fleeing horrific violence. They are trying to rebuild their lives. They want the same safety and opportunities that any of us would want.”

“And so we are scapegoating them in the guise of national security,” she said. “Instead, we are betraying our own values. We are violating international law.”

As news of the impending order spread, lives were quickly affected across the world, particularly among the citizens of the countries immediately targeted. For them, it is already difficult to get visas or immigrate to the United States. Vetting has been stringent since the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, rights activists say. Even so, many potential Muslim immigrants went through long screening processes, often lasting years, to gain entry to the United States. Now, many find themselves in an emotional and bureaucratic limbo.

The shock for Syrian refugees already in the United States cut deepest for those awaiting the arrival of loved ones.

For Eman, a widow in Chicago who asked that her surname be withheld out of concern for relatives back home, that means her son. They fled the western Syrian city of Homs in 2012, fearing he would be conscripted into President Bashar al-Assad’s military. Months after her arrival in America, Eman had expected her eldest son to arrive in short order, once paperwork for his new marriage was approved.

“It seemed like everything was fine, and he was finally going to join me here. Now they tell me it might be impossible because of the president’s new decree,” she said. “I’m so scared. I came to America because I thought it would be best for my family.”

Syria’s bitter war has created the largest refugee crisis since World War II. Jordan, Turkey and Lebanon have absorbed more than 4 million displaced Syrians, spread across camps or living on meager resources in cramped apartments.

In comparison, the United States accepted fewer than 13,000 Syrian immigrants last year, a figure that rose only in the final months after tight vetting procedures initially stemmed the monthly flow to the low hundreds.

“We have to remember these people are escaping the very same terrorism that Trump says he’s banning them for,” said Suzanne Akhras Sahloul, founder of the Syrian Community Network, a grass-roots initiative that has stepped in to fill the linguistic and cultural gaps that larger relief agencies are unable to address.

Refugee advocates say the resettlement of Syrians presents challenges unusual in the United States, even among new refugees. Doctors in Chicago discovered some Syrians still carried shrapnel in their bodies. Less visible but more pervasive is the trauma. Many have been tortured or lived amid constant bombardment.

In Iraq, where Iraqi military personnel are fighting against the Islamic State alongside U.S. Special Operations forces, the visa ban was considered an insult.

“They trained me to fight terrorism, and they look at me as a terrorist?” said one F-16 pilot who trained in the United States for five years. He declined to be named because he did not have his superiors’ permission to speak to reporters. “It’s true that they have the right to protect their country, but that doesn’t mean they should treat us like we are germs.”

He said he has no desire to live in the United States, but that he would like to visit again and “relax” after “fighting terrorism on their behalf.”

“If they really do ban us, it means we are of no value to them,” he continued. “They are just using us.”

Ammar Karim, 37, an Iraqi correspondent with Agence France-Presse, is in the final steps of a program to resettle in the United States. He applied four years ago, and his sponsor in Seattle was recently told to prepare for his arrival. Karim was one of the first interpreters to work with U.S. Marines in Baghdad following the 2003 U.S.-led invasion that toppled Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. He has also worked for large American news organizations, making him a target of militants.

On Thursday, Karim did not hide his disappointment and anger. “Now, because of this new decision, I feel there is no hope that I will move to the U.S. “I will have to stay in this country that is still not at peace. The people who will be affected by this ban are those who did the best for America in Iraq. They sacrificed their lives.”

He added: “It’s not fair. This president doesn’t understand our situation. The U.S. is abandoning the people who stood behind them.”

For Iran and Iranian Americans, the new restrictions are expected to hit particularly hard. Of the roughly 1 million Iranian Americans living in the United States, the vast majority have family members in Iran. Those relatives, who fall under the new executive order banning citizens from certain countries, would be prohibited from visiting loved ones in the United States. Students, artists, filmmakers and even Europeans who also hold Iranian passports could be denied entry.

In the world’s largest refugee camp, called Dadaab, near the Kenya-Somalia border, news of Trump’s impending announcement spread quickly.

“You could see the sadness on people’s faces,” said Mohammed Rashid, an English teacher who has been waiting for five years for his asylum case to be approved.

Between 2001 and 2015, the United States admitted more than 90,000 Somali refugees, according to the U.S. Office of Refugee Resettlement. Many of them came from Dadaab, where generations of Somalis first fled civil war and then fled Islamic extremist groups, often applying for asylum in the United States after arriving at the camp.

Rashid fled Somalia for Dadaab in 1992 to save his family from the country’s civil war. “We thought our children would have better lives in the U.S.,” said Rashid. “Now, with Trump, we are disappointed. There is nowhere else for us to go.”

Some Sudanese refugees in Cairo have spent years in Egypt seeking resettlement to the United States and Europe. Now, there is even less hope.

“I have been trying for four years, but all is in vain,” said Maher Ismail, 23, a university student. “Our conditions here are dire. It is very difficult to get anywhere, the U.S. or any other place. I have applied for a lottery visa three months ago anyway, but I know how this is going to end up.”

“This decision has really destroyed our dreams,” he said. “I don’t know what I will say to my mother or how I would break the news for her.”