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consumedkings-archive · 4 years ago

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WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic. chapter twelve: the desire to devour

word count: ~10.3k rating: m warnings: naughty language, .000002 seconds of spiciness (but not really), john goes "we were vibing, right? we had the vibes? right?" for like the entire last half. also mentions of self-harm and elliot's previous trauma. notes: hi friends! i hope you enjoy this chapter! this is going to be the last sort of in-between chapter before we really get into it, and from here it's going to go faaaaast. i had a lot of fun writing it and feeling out these different dynamics. not to mention john being a gigantic fuckhead (but like what is new, lmao). special thank you as always to my wifey and beta reader @starcrier for your impeccable eyeballs, and also to @vasiktomis and @shallow-gravy for lending their eyes as well because i did fuss a bit with this chap. i would be lost without y'all. thank you everyone for your love and support, esp with comments! it really fills my heart so so much to hear back from you, and i am always in the market for friends so do not be afraid to reach out to me <3

She is twenty-five.

She’s twenty-five, and it's her first full day of work. Or, it was; now, she's sitting in the Spread Eagle listening to Pratt talk about everything that's happened while she's been gone, because he'd said, c'mon, let me take you out tonight. He grins a boyish, toothy grin at her—the same kind that's mimicked in the multiple school dance photos her mother covets—and tries to sound nonchalant when he asks how she liked being in the city.

It's hard not to think about how this is the first place she had ever met John Seed, then-Duncan, and how it feels like it's spoiled the whole place for her.

Elliot redirects her attention as best as she can to what it is Pratt is saying. He's fishing for information. They've always been each other's safety net, the person they can fall back on when all else fails. School dances. Picking partners in class. Graduation walking buddies. He'd driven her to the airport when she left for the Academy, even. But even though she knows he's trying to figure out if she's still a safety net, Elliot can't disguise the way thinking about Mason makes her feel—disgusting—so she brings the beer bottle to her mouth and takes a swallow.

The result is her face scrunching up. Pratt laughs.

“Geez, Elli, slow down,” he says, his smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Bet money you're still a lightweight. When'd you start drinking beer, anyway?”

“I didn't,” she manages out around the taste, swallowing thickly. “I just won't let your money go to waste.”

He shrugs, as if to say, could, if you wanted, and swivels on the stool a little. He wants to press again—she can tell—but seems to have the good sense not to, instead busying his mouth with his own beer.

“Mama said Whitehorse let you right on,” Elliot says casually, trying to ignore the twinge of envy in her voice.

Pratt shrugs again. “He's known my dad a long time.”

“Known my mom too,” Elliot replies, dry.

“Yeah, well.” Pratt pauses, and sounds a little smug when he says, “Just because your mama likes me doesn’t mean I don’t know how she is to everyone else.”

“Likes you, does she?”

“Obviously,” the brunette replies confidently. “She still keeps all those photos of us. Remember senior year, she had all of her gal pals over when we were getting ready for prom—”

“Ugh.”

“—took us about 45 minutes before we were exactly where she wanted to take pictures—"

She rolls her eyes. Pratt grins, and then bumps his shoulder against hers. He says, “Aw, c’mon. Not so bad, is it? Having your mom like me?"

Elliot can feel the flush spreading under her cheeks. Not because she's embarrassed, or flustered, but because the beer sitting in her stomach feels rotten, and because Pratt's looking at her with the same kind of eyes he did before—always, always there's the before—and she doesn't know how to say I'm not her anymore, I'm not that girl, I'm different and changed and I don't know how to go back.

It doesn't matter. If Pratt can see it on her face, he doesn't let it show; just pats her shoulder and pretends he doesn't see the way she flinches from his hand swinging into her peripheral, pretends he doesn't notice the way she covers it up by swallowing another mouthful of beer she doesn't want to drink.

“Hudson’s really glad to have you back,” he says after a minute, when she doesn’t confirm nor deny that it’s not so bad knowing her mom thinks he’s a fine enough person. “Been talking about it nonstop.”

A smile creeps its way onto her face. “I’m glad to be back. With her, especially.”

“Yeah, you two always been thick, huh?”

She nods, swallows more beer, and Pratt rolls his eyes and snags the bottle out of her hand.

“Don’t keep drinking if you don’t like it,” he tells her, and then finishes it off himself, setting the empty bottle on the countertop with a grimace. “Can’t have people telling Whitehorse I bullied the probie into drinking.”

“‘Probie’,” she scoffs. “I could kick your ass.”

“Bullshit!”

“Could’ve done it before, Pratt.”

“Now that is lies and slander.”

Elliot only grins at him, the only time since coming back sans Joey getting her from the airport that it’s been a genuine thing; lopsided and a little sloppy but a grin nonetheless. Pratt finishes his own beer now, coughing a little into his fist before he blurts out, “I’m glad, too.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“That you’re back,” Pratt clarifies. “Y’know—nice to have my friend back. Didn’t like sendin’ you off to the big city, anyway.”

He doesn’t know. He can’t know, because her mother won’t talk about it and Joey would never divulge what it was that had brought about her speedy return—but even though he doesn’t know about the way she has to swallow back a flinch every time he waves his hand in her peripheral, or the way the smell of beer on a man’s breath makes her stomach clench with anxiety, or how her hands are so fucking cold all the time because her heart hammers in her chest, the way he says that (Didn’t like sendin’ you off to the big city, anyway) feels a little like vindication.

“S’okay,” she murmurs, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Came back in one piece, didn’t I?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The scent of roses wafted over her in waves. The sound of bathwater murmuring against the sides of the porcelain tub rippled each time she moved, each time she used the grip of her hands against the lip of the sides to sink herself under; her knuckles went cold with the ferocious grip, but when she went under she was submerged in quiet once more. Blissful, serene, quiet; just what she wanted.

Elliot pulled herself out of the water. Downstairs, she could hear her mother’s voice, spiking frantic even through the floors and the two closed doors that kept her separated.

“...years, Mr. Seed, I have lost years of my life agonizing over what she did to herself...”

She dipped below the water, closing her eyes. No sound; no shrill noise; just the heavy, bloated static that existed underneath the surface of the bath. Only her and the baby.

It occurred to her, absently, that she needed to start picking out names for the baby. Now that they had a guess at what the gender was, they’d have to decide about a name; not only a first, but a middle, too—the last name—

“...find it quite intriguing, actually, that the second she comes back to me after being involved with your kind that she’s got all this—this—”

Oh, don’t say it, Elliot thought tiredly, closing her eyes.

“—tear, just wretched wear and tear, Mr. Seed, don’t you? Don’t you find that intriguing?”

John was sitting down there, enduring a thorough verbal lashing, and she hadn’t even asked him to. She’d said, I don’t care if she thinks it was me, and he’d guided her upstairs and cupped her face and kissed her, long and open-mouthed, and swept his thumb over her cheek. Now, Elliot could hear the sound of his voice—calmer, empathetic, like just knowing that her mother was hysterical was giving him some kind of control over himself—but that he was speaking in a normal tone meant that his words didn’t come through quite so clearly.

She heard the sound of her mother saying, “I suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re not bothered in the least?” just before she dipped under the water again.

What was she going to name the baby? Did she even have an idea of what kinds of names she liked? Exhaustion pulled at the edges of her attention; she thought, I’m too tired to come up with a baby name, and gripped the edges of the bathtub harder. More fierce, more firm; grip and pull, maybe spill the entire bathtub over, tilt the clawed feet until it hit the tiled floor and the porcelain broke and the rose-scent water flooded the bathroom, her room, the hallway.

Then they’d have to leave. Then they couldn’t stay, surely, in a house flooded with rose water.

Fingers brushed over hers where they’d gone white at the edges of the tub. She pulled herself out of the water to find John sitting there, knelt at the side of the tub—not unlike the way he’d sat back at her mother’s house in Hope County, when she’d drank too much in the bathtub and said that he could mark her.

Because that’s what it had been. As much as she had wanted it, as much as she had enjoyed it, no matter what John said—he had been marking her as his. Like that Oscar Wilde poem.

The same sin binds us.

Elliot brushed the water from her eyes and settled her head back against the tub, regarding him. He looked less bothered than she thought he would, having sat through her mother’s grilling and interrogation—though he did look like he wanted to say something, like maybe it was sitting, burning into ash in his mouth, the way she could see the flex of his jaw and the way his free hand clenched and loosened.

Ignoring the nagging feeling that he wanted to ask her what she’d been doing under the water, and the even more bothersome knowledge that she had, at some point, become painfully aware of his body language, Elliot said, “We have to think of a name.”

John blinked at her. Less than an hour ago, he’d been saying Of course I’d come for you, I love you, with or without the baby I love you, and she’d been sobbing into his arms and clinging to him.

He said, “And a middle name.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

A smile finally ticked the corner of his mouth, his fingers uncurling hers from the edge of the tub. Reluctantly, she let him.

“Your mother’s upset.” He paused. “She still wants you to play nice for her Christmas party, but she’s upset.”

“I know,” she replied sullenly. The despair of her shame, which had at once both overwhelmed her and hollowed her out, had dissipated in the wake of her indignation. What would she know, that vicious thing inside of her said, replaying the way her mother’s expression had crumpled. What would she know of our suffering? What would she know of our pain? ‘Wretched wear and tear’, like we haven’t been torn up for ages, like she didn’t throw us to the wolves and scoff in disgust when we came back bloodied and battered.

She wanted to be angry, really angry, but like most things that had to do with her mother, Elliot found herself more exhausted than anything. Scarlet had always found it impossible to comprehend the scars she’d given herself, had always claimed to feel disconnected to the ways Elliot had searched out meaning and comfort.

Absently, Elliot wet her lips and let her gaze flicker up to where John had perched himself beside the tub. He looked mighty pleased with himself, having finally gotten his words out. I love you, he’d said, palm flat against her window, I love you, with or without the baby.

And John, I want a home with you.

And John, Marriage is hard work, but I know you’re just the woman for the job.

And John, No way baby, I’m fucking it for you.

Blood rushed through her head, thunderous. John was saying something to her, but the words felt distant, and far away, and everything felt like it was underwater when she moved—not just the parts of her submerged in the bath, but all of it, the air too-thick and dragging on her skin and pulling her down slow as molasses. She blinked a few times as she disentangled their hands and reached for the towel, but John pulled it off of the hook first.

She watched him. She watched his mouth move, and his brows pull and furrow together at the center of his forehead, and the way his breath rose and fell in his chest, pushing and pulling the Sloth scar scratched across his sternum. Just like me, dream John had said, gripping her blood-covered hands, you’re just like me.

His voice, muffled and bogged down by the blood rushing through her ears, quirked up at the end. Elliot’s eyes darted back to his, and she asked, “Sorry, what?”

“The water’s cold,” he replied, waving the towel a bit. “Aren’t you getting out?”

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. She felt hollow. Her fingers itched. She wanted—

John caught her hand as she stepped out of the bathtub, steadying her while her free hand gathered the towel up against her front. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, the lukewarm temperature of the bath still lingering; his fingers interlaced with hers, and she used it to steady herself.

He was close. They were close. A part of her resented it—that she let him be so close to her, that she let him kiss her and fuck her but mostly that she let him hold her when she cried, miserably, that she wanted to go home. Because after everything, after all of it, Hope County still felt—

She closed her eyes. Of course it still felt like home. Joey was there; now she knew Pratt was, too.

And among all of that, if she waded through the weeds spreading in her mind, if she hacked and cut them away, there was John.

“What are you thinking about?” John murmured, his cologne washing over her, their noses brushing. Her eyes fluttered open and she let out a little breath, that wanton little creature in her head chanting it over and over. There’s John, there’s always been John, nobody will love us with this much red in our ledger. No one but him.

“You,” she managed. Her head felt swimmy, the words coming out of her mouth sounding like a stranger’s—thick with want. John’s eyes flickered up to hers, having fixed on her mouth.

“If you want something, Ell,” he rumbled, the pressure of his fingertips against the back of her neck guiding her forward just a little but not all the way, “you only—”

Elliot leaned forward and kissed him, her hand lifting so that she could curl her fingers into his hair, the towel slipping to the floor. His body had tensed, like he wasn’t expecting it—like he was waiting for something else—and she thought about the way he’d kissed her with Kian’s blood in her mouth, the way he’d been just rampant with desire, the way the way the way—

Her teeth caught his lower lip, a little sharper than she’d intended, and his hand gripping her wrist tightened and he moaned, and she felt that same little thrill as before surge through her. It’s my magic, too, the itch in her fingers subsiding when she dug her nails in and pulled his hair a little, parting her lips against his; John leaned into her, crowding her up against the counter in front of the mirror, the hand at the nape of her neck threading into damp hair.

“Ell,” he said against her mouth, his voice rougher than before and hands planted on the counter on either side of her, “what are you doing?”

She murmured, “Stop talking,” and kissed him again, fingers clumsily working through the buttons on his shirt—her voice came out even but everything else about her felt wobbly, unsteady, craving craving craving the way it felt to have him begging her. Anything, to feel in control. Anything, to feel whole. Dig, and dig, and when you hit the bottom you keep digging some more, right?

What do we do with grief, right?

Burn and erase the image of her mother’s disgust and horror at seeing a part of her she might actually like, scrape it from her mind, dig her trenches deep deep deep and hunker down where she could feel safe, where she could feel strong; soon she would be home and—

And John’s teeth snagged her lower lip in retribution, sparking violent and red-hot behind her eyes with pleasure lighting her neurons on fire.

“Off,” she ground out against his mouth, pushing helplessly at the shirt she’d only halfway unbuttoned. The brunette grinned; his hands resumed her work, and she instead devoted her attention to the belt at his waist, yanking at it as John’s face dropped to her neck, hot breath fanning across her skin teeth dragging against her pulse point to pull a moan out of her.

There was a split second between John discarding his shirt on the floor and gripping her hips to lift her onto the countertop, his mouth seeking hers out again as she wound her arms around his neck. She had never been completely naked and felt not vulnerable at all, felt more in control—but she did, now, when she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled and he moaned her name, a little frantic, Ell, Ell, hellcat, he said into their kiss, let me let me, greedy and wanting as he glided fingers up along the inside of her thigh.

He tensed, like he was going to drop to his knees, and she kept her hand in his hair and said, “Don’t.”

“Hm,” is what he replied, “pulling on my hair, ordering me to take my clothes off—”

“I’m about to tell you to shut up again.”

“—but won’t let me eat you out?” John grinned against her mouth, the scent of his cologne—expensive, stupid shit, but it never failed to feel like it was overwhelming her senses—washing over her. “What is it, baby? Want me to say please?”

Yes, something wicked inside of her said, John’s eyes lifting from her mouth to hers, narrowing playfully. Yes, I’d like that, I’d like to hear you say it like that.

“I know you,” he purred. He dug his nails into her hips, a sound—the wanting kind—trying to crawl its way up her throat. “Know exactly what you want from me. Yeah? So, Ell, won’t you please—”

There was a sharp knock at the door, a pause, and then: “Elliot?”

A near-silent laugh billowed out of John, stifled into her neck when her mother’s voice came through the door. Elliot’s eyes fluttered; her fingers, knotted in John’s hair, loosened and smoothed down the back of his neck, the intoxicating tension relaxing just a little. Heat had coiled in the hollow of her chest, spreading warm fingers at the same leisurely pace that John’s hand drifted up to her hip, his mouth finding the hollow of her jaw.

“I can’t believe her,” she muttered. “Yes?”

“Miss West is here, with her brother.” Scarlet’s voice was tight. “Returning your vehicle.”

Fuck. Elliot sighed, her eyes closing for a second while she tried to gather her thoughts. It was difficult to focus with John’s breath on her neck and his hands on her skin and that fucking cologne—and boy, did she not want to dwell on the fact that he’d shown up with barely anything but somehow also remembered to pack his stupid fucking cologne. But there was a different, special kind of warmth that spread through her when she realized that Sylvia was coming to check on her.

“Hair’s wet,” she called after a moment, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Fine.” There was another pause, and then her mother’s voice, scathing even through the door: “Ensure you are put together, Elliot.”

John murmured against her neck, “So no hickeys, then?” and she swatted his shoulder, rolling her eyes and sliding off of the counter. He seemed reluctant to let her disembark, thumb sweeping the slope of her hip before he dropped down—just far enough to plant a kiss on the gentle slope of her tummy. It was—sentimental, unseating her with incredible ease.

And then he ruined it by saying, “Your mommy won’t let me fuck her filthy, but I hear the second trimester throws a woman’s hormones through the roof, so we’ll see how long that lasts,” to her bump as he grabbed the towel from the floor to offer to her.

She snatched it from his hands, wrapping it around herself. “Don’t say that shit to the baby. You think I won’t end your life?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he offered, head cocked to the side. “Leaving the hickeys, anyway, I mean. Well, and the second part too. About sex. Not the murderous part. Actually, you know I find it—”

Choosing to ignore the latter statement, Elliot narrowed her eyes. “You’d risk Via’s opinion of you dropping so severely?”

“You know what they say.” John spread his hands, almost in a gesture of helplessness; though she knew he was far from it. “Old habits die hard.”

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“She’s killing all of my angels!”

Faith’s voice was sharp, piercing; Isolde’s fingers fluttered over the bridge of her nose to fend off an impending headache, pen held poised above the notepad where she’d been writing down her thoughts but had paused in time for the girl’s interjection. She couldn’t stand a messy page—ink smears, jarred letters. Unacceptable.

Two hours ago, she’d had Jacob drive her out to where the service was strongest. A flood of emails and texts from her family had been waiting to overload her phone. Her dad, things are looking poorly, where are you?, her sister, I’ve been trying to reach you for days.

“Jacob,” the blonde plunged on, interrupting her train of thought, “you have to do something. They’re being—gutted like fish!”

“You should have locked them down,” Jacob told her. “And you’re not the only one losing things.”

“I put—” Faith cut herself off, clearly taking a moment to compose herself before she pitched her voice low and said, “I put just as much work into them as you do into yours.”

The red head’s voice bloomed with annoyance when he said, “Oh, did you?”

“No fighting, please,” Joseph called from where he sat next to her. His voice was even, elbows rested on his legs and fingers interlaced in thought. “I know this is stressful. But you must keep your faith in God.”

“Santi told me that—whoever she is has been leaving their corpses all around!” Faith’s voice pitched high with distress, now, sweeping around Jacob to come to where they had sat, big doe eyes wide. “We have to do something. Please, Father—I don’t want our people to wonder if they’re going to be next.”

Joseph paused, looking pensive for a moment; Isolde thought he might have been trying to figure out how he wanted to phrase something, but before he could speak, Isolde looked at Jacob and said, “You were going to hunt her down anyway, weren’t you?”

The eldest Seed’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you start with me too, Sol.”

“Get some fresh air,” she replied curtly, “go for a drive, clear your head. Eliminate a problem. You’ve been wearing a hole in the floors anyway; put that energy into being productive.”

“P—” Jacob’s voice spiked, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

He was agitated. She could tell—Pratt, and the phone call with the deputy in Georgia, and the Hunter on some kind of one-man rampage. But more importantly, Isolde thought, Jacob was agitated because there had not been a single conversation between him and Joseph since their argument.

Well, not even an argument. Just a lashing. A public one.

Isolde scooted her chair back from the table that had been set up at the front of the chapel, setting her pen down and stepping away. Her hand landed on the crook of Jacob’s elbow as she passed, and though he made a noise that implied disdain, he followed—not without shrugging her hand off by the time they got to the front doors of the chapel, leaving the other two to talk in low, murmured voices.

“You have got to stop letting this get to you,” she hissed.

“Nothing is ‘getting’—”

“Listen to me,” Isolde interjected. “I’ve been keeping as close an eye on the news as I have been on you. Things are—” She paused, mouth twisting around the words. “There is no room for you lot to be bloody fighting with each other. Do you understand me? This has moved far past needing to prepare PR and build a legal defense.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked suspicious. “So why are you still here then, Sol?” he asked.

The words burned insult in her chest. Why are you still here, stinging fresh and hot, because it was a fair question. It was the most fair question. Unlike any of these people, she had a family outside that she still loved. Her sister, and her parents. She should have told John and all of the Seeds to go fuck themselves, to enjoy the end of the world, while she went to be with her family.

But she wasn’t. She was here. Doing—this. Finding fresh new ways for Joseph to connect with his people to keep their morale high, keeping the infighting at bay to make sure they looked like a united front to everyone, second doomsday cult included.

“My parents will take care of Avery. You know they’re close with—government,” she replied after a minute, shaking off the unease. “And I told John that I would.”

He snorted. “John says jump, you ask how high?”

“No,” she bit out, “I say jump and you kiss the fucking ground I’m standing on because I cobbled together what the fuck is left of your congregation.” Before Jacob could say anything, Isolde added, “My hands are full, Jake. Do not add to my pile.”

Dark brows furrowed, his mouth thinning in disdain. He clearly wanted to say something. But true to his nature, Jacob straightened back and settled himself before he said, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” he reiterated with his eyes narrowed. “I’m going to the Veteran’s Center.”

“That doesn’t sound like where we heard about the killings happening last,” Isolde protested, eyes narrowing.

“But she was there,” he replied. “Or someone was. Someone was there enough to steal my files.”

“Your—” Isolde snapped her mouth shut, sucking her teeth as she glanced back at Joseph and Faith; haloed in the dim lighting of the chapel, she could see them looking back at Jacob and herself expectantly. She wondered how much they could hear, from there.

Turning her attention back to Jacob and pitching her voice down in volume, Isolde hissed, “I don’t think prioritizing files is the best move right now.”

“Thank you,” Jacob idled, “for your input.”

“Fuck you.”

“Have fun,” he added, opening the door and letting in a waft of biting, cold air, before gesturing to the Book of Joseph on the table that she’d had her nose stuck in. All the better to make Joseph’s sermons hit home harder, after all. “You know—with your light reading.”

Isolde narrowed her eyes, watching him trudge down the steps for just a second before she said, “Jacob—”

“Yes, Isolde?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t get shot.”

For a moment, he looked almost surprised at her words—but it was only a moment before he said, “Don’t worry, I’m taking Vidal. He makes a suitable meatshield.”

“God, he’s a talker.”

A tiny ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Jacob’s lips, before he said, “John and the deputy should be making their way here any day now.”

Isolde grimaced. “I was there for the phone call.”

“Are you going to leave?” Jacob pressed, expression stiffening again. “When he does?”

She paused, clearing her throat and shifting on her feet. I should, were the words that wanted to come out of her mouth. I should go. I only came down here because John wasn’t here. I should go, and get back to my life, and maybe get to my family and try to stay out of the crossfire and—

After a heartbeat, she said, “I don’t know.”

Jacob shrugged, as if to say, see? Told you, though to what he could be referring to, she had no idea; she only knew that she didn’t like the way he swung around and sauntered out of the chapel, leaving her alone in the tepid warmth with Joseph and Faith’s eyes on her in favor of the blistering cold outside. Snow had continued to dump throughout the day and night, and had only just let up recently; the members of Eden’s Gate—those who had survived the Family’s relentless assaults, and those that had been pulled from the bunkers—had been tirelessly shoving pathways, only to have their work tidily undone each night.

Fingers brushed the palm of her hand. Isolde startled; she glanced back just as fingers interlaced with hers to be met with sweet, bright eyes and Faith’s adoring attention planted on her.

“It means so much to me,” Faith murmured, “that you would help. Not just me, but all of us.”

Soli watched the blonde for a moment, trying to gauge. The physical closeness was not something she was accustomed to; carefully, she disentangled their fingers, skin prickling with unease. When she glanced up, Joseph’s eyes were on them, on Faith’s fingers falling from her hand but skimming the inside of her palm in a lingering touch of affection.

He was always doing that. Watching. Watching, and waiting, and pinning each movement and gesture and thought and word out perfectly like the wings of a butterfly, just the color he liked and just the shape.

“Don’t thank me,” Isolde replied, mustering a smile and brushing the hair from her face.

“It’s my job.”

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“Hey, Miss Honey, John!”

Wyatt’s cheerful voice broke through the late-afternoon chill; the sun setting early, people’s breath coming out in puffs of smoke. It all felt oddly normal, given the circumstances of the morning and the way she’d forgotten to call Sylvia once she got home, and that her friend had fished up a reason to come by the house and make sure she hadn’t—

Well.

Still, if there was any remnant of the morning in Sylvia’s heart, it didn’t show in her face, and it certainly didn’t show in Wyatt’s. Instead, both blondes beamed at her, radiant, the second she came out with fuzzy, fresh-from-the-blow-dryer hair and swaddled up to her chin in thick fabrics to fend off the cold.

And, truthfully, to hide the bump. John had reminded her of it, and even though the moment had been a...good one, it had also reminded her she hadn’t expressed this truth to Sylvia or Wyatt. As John closed the door behind her and jogged down the steps,

“Howdy,” Ell greeted, albeit a bit awkwardly thanks to her stuck-somewhere-nowhere-sort-of-accent. “You didn’t have to drive it back all the way out here, you know.”

“Sure we did.” Wyatt chirped. “Wouldn’t be very neighborly of us if we let it sit and the battery died out, now would it?”

“No,” John demurred after a moment even as Elliot’s cheeks went warm, “I suppose not.”

“You all recovered from this morning?” Via asked cheerfully, purposefully avoiding the actual question. Elliot shifted on her feet. John’s hand skimmed the small of her back, and even through the layers of fabric, it felt warm; she wondered if this was what it would have been like for them, had their life been normal. Had John been truthful with her from the get-go. Now, with everything laid out between them—the lies unearthed and only the brutal, unapologetic knowledge that they wanted each other, in one way or another—it felt like they might have been normal. Sometime, somewhere, someplace else.

It was still hard to swallow, all of it. The lies and the now-truths and the knowledge that she did, in fact, want.

“Oh, yeah,” Ell replied faintly. “Took a bath and...” She tried for a smile. “Decompressed.”

“That what smells so good?”

“Y’all get that tired from dress shoppin’?” Wyatt tsked, having pulled his coat out of the jeep and started to pull it on. He grinned at her and skillfully dodged a side-swipe from Sylvia; he had a good foot of height on her—and Elliot—so it wasn’t difficult. The siblings fussed for only a moment before Sylvia managed to fetch the Jeep’s keys from Wyatt’s coat pocket and held them out to Elliot, puffing.

She was in the middle of saying, “Your keys, madame,” when John’s head tilted and he muttered, “Now what is this?”, drawing her attention to the end of the drive. A police cruiser made its way slowly down the drive, carefully pulling up behind the Jeep.

Not beside it. Not further up toward the garage, not on the other side of the four of them chatting. Behind it. Blocked in.

Sheriff Pritchard stepped out, shuffling a little as he adjusted the black, fur-trimmed jacket on his shoulders and closed the driver side door. He’d come alone, which made Elliot certain he wasn’t here to arrest her—and what a ludicrous thought, that he might have considered it a possibility, because the mere mental image of Pritchard grabbing her arm and keeping his eyes in his head made a hysterical kind of laugh want to bubble out of her.

Not me, not me and not my baby, that thing inside of her said, lifting its hackles and baring its teeth when Pritchard began to saunter over. Not my baby.

“Afternoon, you two. And Wests,” Pritchard greeted as he drew closer. He’d earned himself a curious murmur from Sylvia. “Havin’ a little shindig out here, Miss Honeysett?” Elliot opened her mouth to respond, but he lifted his hands quickly in defense. “‘M sorry, forgot myself. Mrs. Seed.”

It caught her off-guard, sucked the air right out of her lungs. It was one thing to hear her mother say John is Elliot’s husband, to hear her say John is my son-in-law, but it was another entirely to hear herself referred to as Mrs. Seed. It had never, ever been that she was John’s wife, except out of his own mouth, but now—

John seemed eager to engage with Pritchard, because he said, “Something that you needed, sheriff?”

“Yes, actually. Believe it or not, I ain’t in the business of drivin’ out to the rich part of town just for shits and giggles,” Pritchard replied coolly. “Your mama home, Elli?”

“Probably resting,” Sylvia offered, smiling politely. “We just finished dress shoppin’ for her Christmas Party not but an hour ago.”

“Yeah,” Pritchard rumbled, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Heard about your little trip to the boutique today.”

John asked irritably, “Do you need to smoke that right now?”

Elliot swallowed thickly. Her lashes fluttered, eyes desperate to close; the warmth that had flooded her face now felt like it verged on feverish, threatening to make her head swim again. This was bad. This was bad-bad, chop her hair off and run run run again bad, the kind of bad that made a girl change her name and burn her birth certificate and make sure that nobody would ever be able to find her again.

“I don’t,” she began, “think mama’s feeling up to visitors right now.”

Pritchard eyed her, taking a puff of his cigarette while completely glazing over John’s pointed question. “Imagine not. You know, you been a hot topic of conversation lately, Mrs. Seed. Gotten loads of questions about you. Lady from out of town, Federal Marshals. I don’t like folks sniffin’ around my town, you know, especially not the fuckin’ Feds, but it’s gotta make me wonder.” The smoke curled out from his nose, the smoke of a lazy, self-righteous dragon wafting around her.

“Sheriff,” John continued tightly, clearing his throat, “you’re going to need to put that out.”

“We’re outside, Mr. Seed. You ain’t ever seen someone smoke a cigarette outside?”

“Do you make a habit of smoking around pregnant women?” John snapped viciously, and oh, she thought, oh, I didn’t even think of that, because her brain was too busy kicking into overdrive and parse out the absolute confirmation that Federal Marshals were asking after her and strange women, too. Oh, I didn’t even think about the baby.

And then Sylvia said, eyes wide as saucers as she laughed, flustered, “Oh, John, that’s very kind of you, but I’m not—” and her eyes landed on Elliot, and she blinked rapidly.

Wyatt was looking at her, too. Big, big eyes, surely having not only learned that she and John were married but that she was also pregnant in the span of only a few minutes. At least, Elliot didn’t think Sylvia would have divulged that information, and if the shock he was clearly trying to cover up in his expression was any indication, that gut feeling was right.

No, she thought, no, this is not what I wanted. This is not what I wanted at all. It wasn’t his to tell, it wasn’t his to tell, it was mine, my choice, mine alone.

Her gaze snapped to Pritchard. She said, “It’s time for you to leave.”

Pritchard lifted his eyebrows. “That so? Well, good for me I ain’t here to talk to you, missy.”

“Get. Off. My. Property,” she bit out through her teeth. “Scarlet isn’t taking visitors, and I’ll cut the decay out of my own teeth before she makes anything close to the time of day for you.”

Now, his eyes narrowed and the cigarette sat between his fingers, still burning amber at the end. “Excuse me?”

“And tell the fucking Feds whatever you want,” she snapped, fingers curled tightly around the keys until the metal edges dug into the nooks and crannies of her hand. “But whatever you do, get the fuck out of my driveway, sheriff.”

Something flickered in the corner of her vision. John started, “Ell,” and his hand went to her shoulder, but she jerked back from him before he could make much more than a brush of contact.

“Don’t,” Elliot snapped at him, her voice wobbling and the tears—shameful tears—welling up and burning, “touch me.”

“Alright, okay,” Sylvia murmured, “Elliot and I are gonna go inside, and John can—”

“Ain’t here to talk to Mr. Seed,” Pritchard drawled venomously.

“If you’re asking questions about Elliot,” Sylvia replied calmly, taking Elliot’s hand with a firm squeeze, “I can imagine there is no better person to ask than her husband, don’t you think so, Sheriff?”

Pritchard’s eyes were squinted into poisonous little slits, and he took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Mrs. Honeysett won’t be any type of cooperative if you get her up now,” Wyatt chimed in, eyes flickering nervously to Elliot—perhaps both because of the news and because of her outburst. But she didn’t have time to think much about it, because Sylvia was tugging her out of the cluster of folks, ginger and reassuring even as her brother plunged on, “I mean, sheriff, come on—you know how women can be when they’re gotten up too early, let alone they’ve been shoppin’ all day—”

And Pritchard said, “You want I should put my cigarette out now, Mr. Seed?” as Sylvia opened the door,

and John replied with a slick, charismatic kind of venom, “No reason to anymore, smoke to your heart’s content,”

and the door clicked shut behind her and Boomer scampered out from where he’d been snoozing under the dining table.

She had to leave.

She had to go.

She had to get out.

Federal Marshals and strange women asking after her, and now her only two friends in the whole fucking world—

(well, not entirely true, since we still have Pratt, isn’t that right? Isn’t that right, Elli?)

—had just seen her almost go fucking bananas on an officer of the law, had watched her demand he get the fuck out of her driveway for wanting to ask her mother about her, had seen her.

“Hey,” Sylvia said, “you’re alright.”

I’m not, she thought, dropping the keys into the crystal bowl by the door, smearing red against the glass. Her hand stung. She reached with the good, unmarked hand for Boomer absently. His cold, wet nose brushed against it, and he whined, feet tapping against the wood as he bumped her for her attention. I won’t go. I won’t fucking go. I won’t pay the price for what they did to me, what they made me into.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out abruptly, her voice coming out tight. “Sorry that I didn’t—um, tell you. About the—”

“It’s okay,” Sylvia told her quickly, “it’s alright, Elli, it’s not a big deal. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Elli, she said, without knowing what the nickname meant. Elli, Sylvia said, it’s alright, and Joey, right now we need to leave, Elli, and Pratt, geez, Elli, slow down, an affectionate nickname saved only for folks who considered her their friend. Sans Pritchard. Fuck Pritchard.

“Lots of people wait to tell,” Via continued, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder and jarring her out of her thoughts, which were quickly and rapidly devolving back into the urge to march outside and ensure Pritchard was obeying her command. Out out out, something vicious inside of her demanded, we want him out we want him gone.

Elliot said, “Yeah, you’re right,” but she felt far away—not lost, not gone from herself, but thinking. She could pack fast. She could pack fast, and John had brought barely anything, and they could leave right now, her mother none the wiser. They could leave now and be gone and Cameron Burke would have to—

But are we sure it’s Burke? Are we sure it’s Burke and not someone else, come to haul your ass to a fucking psych ward, for what you did in Hope County?

For what you did?

No. She wasn’t sure. She could only hope it was one singular Federal Marshall on her tail, and not an actual piece of the government body. That was all.

But whoever it was that was asking after her—strangers, government officials—it didn’t matter. That old mantra had kicked in again; something has to be done, the same kind of calm before the storm that she’d felt when Joey had been killed, something has to be done.

Something has to be done and I’m going to have to be the one to fucking do it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pritchard dropped the cigarette into the snow and stamped it out with his bootheel, his eyes fixed on John. Sylvia had rushed Elliot inside, but he didn’t think that had been purely necessary—only in the instance they had wanted to keep Pritchard out of a blood bath. Elliot hadn’t been checking out, trying to keep herself together; she had been angry, and he’d had half a mind to let her say and do exactly as she pleased to the man now standing in front of him in the cold.

“She always been that volatile, Mr. Seed?” the sheriff asked.

“Not undeservingly,” John replied tartly, his eyes narrowed. “Did you have specific questions, sheriff, or did you just come by to terrorize my pregnant wife with your theoretical judgment of her soul?”

“More your speed?” Pritchard replied, lifting a brow.

“Pardon?”

“Heard about you Seed boys,” he continued coolly, “and your...” He gestured with a calloused hand vaguely, looking for the right word.

John smiled, with teeth. “Before I grow old, if you don’t mind, sheriff.”

“Proclivities,” Pritchard elaborated, “for religion.”

Fucking Burke, he thought, with no absence of venom; fucking Burke can’t resist the urge to try and fuck up my life when he’d be better off trying to find a place to hunker down for the end of the world.

“We’re red-blooded Americans,” John idled coolly, “freedom of religion goes hand in hand with that.”

“Mr. Pritchard, you wanna get that car started?” Wyatt cut in abruptly, glancing around like he thought maybe the rest of the patrol might be rolling in any minute. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve got any questions for Mr. Seed.”

“That’s sheriff to you, boy,” he snapped. And then, after a heartbeat, he fished his keys out of his pocket and said, “I s’pose I got all the information I needed, after all.”

“Mmhm.”

John had turned back to the house, spotting Elliot and Sylvia through the front window, when Pritchard announced, “You make sure Scarlet gives me a call when she’s recovered from your wife’s antics, Mr. Seed.”

His gaze returned to the sheriff, narrowed. “Certainly, Sheriff Pritchard.”

“But if I don’t hear from you, no worries,” the man continued, opening his car door, “I’ll make another special trip out here.”

“Goody.”

John flashed another grin when Pritchard’s eyes flickered over him. Wyatt said, “Have a safe drive,” and Pritchard slammed his door shut, his cruiser’s engine roaring to life before he began to slowly back out and make a u-turn to head down the long driveway again. There was a moment of silence, stretching between himself and Wyatt that he didn’t feel particularly inclined to break—after all, Wyatt had been taking liberties with Elliot that he shouldn’t have been—before the blonde finally broke the silence.

“Congrats,” Wyatt said after a minute. “About—uh, the baby, I mean. I didn’t know!”

Ah, he thought, feeling a strange little surge of pride at the way the man across from him shifted on his feet with discomfort, and that’s why Elliot’s mad I brought it up. Her friends didn’t know.

Well, it was better this way, after all. He wouldn’t have taken it back even if he’d gotten the chance, knowing what he did now.

“Thank you,” he replied amiably. “It’s certainly a blessing.”

Wyatt’s mouth twisted for a moment, looking like there was something he wanted to say specifically and didn’t know how to say it without foregoing social niceties, but the sound of the front door opening caught both of their attentions.

“Wyatt, you gonna stand out here like a lemming all afternoon or what?” Via called. “Get the car warmed up, you caveman.” She took a few steps down the front stairs and looked at John. “You’re wanted inside, Mr. Seed.”

A very polite way of telling him that Elliot, perhaps, was in the mood to throttle him with her bare hands. Though he didn’t really see the harm in spilling the news—perhaps with Via, sure, but Wyatt? The cowboy? Like that was ever going to be anything.

“Thanks for your help,” John said, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder before he made his way to the front steps. Via hadn’t moved. In fact, her normally polite expression was eerily cool—whatever amicable, feigned interest she had manicured for him in the past seemed to have evaporated in the wake of Elliot’s own fury.

As he neared, he said, “Something else you needed, Miss West?”

Via’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Wyatt, now inside the car, and then back to John. “You must think I’m mighty dumb, don’t you?”

John lifted an eyebrow inquisitively. “If you think I instigated that little outburst on purpose—”

“What I think,” Via replied, “is that you know exactly what she’s capable of handling. Just because you didn’t do it on purpose doesn’t mean you weren’t thinking of letting her physically assault a police officer.”

His easy-going expression flattened. Sylvia, and her seeing, the same kind of uncanny people-reading skills that Joseph had, too. Seeing his delight at knowing that Elliot would have taken on a man a foot taller than her, pregnant, if it meant keeping him away from the baby, if it meant keeping herself out of the grip of a greater power that wanted her in a psychiatric evaluation.

“I want to like you,” Via continued, taking the steps until she reached the bottom, “and I thought maybe you were here to make a real effort. But it seems like you’re the same person you were before, John Duncan.”

The name sent a jolt of red-hot anger flushing down his spine, filling him up suddenly with a sort of molten rage that only the reminder of his adoptive parents could have inspired in him. When Via went to move past him, he snatched her elbow, holding her in place.

“And where,” he ground out, “did you hear that name, Miss West?”

“It’s called a web browser, John,” Via replied coolly. “You ever heard of Google? Imagine how many John Seeds there are in Hope County, Montana. I don’t need to tell you that the articles regarding you and your brothers, though a bit old, are unflattering. And all I want you to know—” She paused, arm still in his grip. “—is that we’re aware of each other, and that I don’t want anything happening to Elliot.”

“Neither do I,” John replied tightly, “and I especially don’t want someone digging trenches where there’s not a war zone.”

Via regarded him with an even gaze for a moment, glancing back at the car where her brother sat, before she murmured idly, “Kindly take your hand off of my arm, John.”

“Ellliot’s already aware of the any of the information in those articles,” he continued lowly, “just so you know.”

“My point, John,” Via replied casually, “is that I know, and I can—and will—deal with it as I see fit. Now, you gonna take your fuckin’ hand off of my arm, or are we going to have a problem?”

He watched her for a moment—just long enough to consider the dopamine rush of killing her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and slamming her face into the top of the porch, doing something, anything to ensure that Sylvia West was not capable of messing up anything that he was doing—and then he planted a big smile on his face and dropped his hand from her arm.

“Careful,” he said, louder now so that Wyatt would hear, “it’s icy.”

The blonde didn’t respond. Instead, she brushed her hand absently where his had been, as though to brush herself free of his touch, and picked her way across the driveway and to the truck idling just on the other side of the jeep.

Well, that would be one less problem to deal with, in the end.

John made his way inside, closing the front door quietly behind himself and taking a moment to gauge. Just to see what was going on. The house itself was quiet, and Boomer’s little footfalls were nowhere to be heard, and Scarlet wasn’t sipping her vodka in the living room—so.

So.

Taking a breath, he started up the stairs, turning into the hall to find Elliot’s bedroom door halfway ajar. He paused in the doorway; she was rifling through drawers, pulling sweaters and long-sleeved shirts and jeans and sweats out and dropping them into a duffel bag, furious little exhales occasionally coming out of her.

“I was told I was being summoned,” John said, Elliot’s attention razor-sharp and snapping to him immediately.

“Pack your shit,” she said briskly, “we’re leaving.”

He blinked. Taking a step inside, he glanced at Boomer—perched protectively between himself and Elliot—and said, “I thought we were waiting until after the Christmas party?”

“You’re not fucking deaf, John, you heard Pritchard,” she snapped. “The Feds have been asking about me. The only reason they don’t know exactly where to look—whoever it is—is because Pritchard’s a fucking asshole and likes to be as obstinate as possible.”

“And if we sprint out of here,” he replied, “you’re just going to draw their attention.”

“It’s what Pritchard wants.” Elliot zipped the duffel bag shut and then brushed past him into the bathroom, gathering up her toothbrush and toothpaste and the sleeping pills. “For me to be gone. He’ll piss off if I go. And there’s no way he’s going to put up a big fight to cozy up to the government.”

“Elliot.” John watched her furiously gathering things up, and then when she came by again he caught her with his hands. “Ell, just slow down—”

“Stop,” she bit out, “stop telling me what to fucking do, John, and—I told you not to touch me.”

He lifted his hands from her, but not far enough that she could duck past. “Are you that mad about Sylvia and Wyatt knowing you’re pregnant?” When she didn’t answer, and instead hauled the bag over from the other side of the bed to be close to her so that she could dump the collections from the bathroom into it, he sighed. “I didn’t know you hadn’t told them, but I don’t understand what all of the secrecy is about. The baby isn’t—”

“I felt normal!” Elliot replied sharply, her voice pitching a little higher now, and John heard the wet wobble in it too—the way the timbre of her voice thickened and rounded out with the threat of oncoming tears, her cheeks flushed with anger and maybe shame and pain, too. “Okay? I felt—I f-fucking felt normal, for once, and it was enough that Sylvia knew you and I had been—that we’re married, which I don’t even want to dig into right now, but it was another to be like—yes, the father of my fucking child, who I’m actually married to even though I didn’t want it, is here and oh, by the way? He’s part of a cult. Yeah, a fucking doomsday cult. I’m carrying the child of a doomsday cultist.”

“How was I supposed to know?” he demanded. “How was I supposed to know that you didn’t want Sylvia and her brother knowing you were pregnant? You never said. And what does it matter?” And then, feeling the petulance well up inside of him: “I know it probably felt nice, to have Wyatt giving you attention—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked, incredulous. “You’re really pulling that now? So, what—you dumped the news because you wanted to make sure my friend found me as off-limited as possible?”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “I know this may come as a shock to you,” he said, feeling the tension peeling apart behind his eyelids, “I really didn’t want Pritchard smoking near my baby.”

“My baby.” Elliot jammed her finger into his chest, just above his heart, her words vicious. “It’s our baby, or it’s my baby, but there isn’t a single fucking universe where the only person this baby is beholden to is you.”

“He’s,” John corrected, tartly. “He’s our baby. And at the end of the day, whether you like it or not—”

“Have you ever,” she cut in over him, biting the words out between her teeth, “done anything for me that wasn’t for you too?”

Watching her, the words sat sticky in his chest. His instinct was to say, of course I have, but that wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t. And he wasn’t going to pretend like it was, either—because he wasn’t ashamed that everything he had done had been for them, that if Elliot wasn’t his then there would be no point in it, that it was a zero sum game where he either had her or he had nothing.

He said, evenly, “No.”

Elliot looked unseated by his honesty. She swept her fingers across her forehead tiredly and turned back to her bag. “Then do me a favor and pack your shit so we can go.”

John sighed. “Don’t you think—”

“John,” she bit out, “I am making an executive decision.”

“Alright, Ell.”

“And—”

John had turned to the door to go gather what few of his belongings he’d had when Elliot cut herself off, drawing his eyes over his shoulder to her again. She looked unwell—stressed, feverish, her hands buried into the duffel bag maybe to hide the shaking and her face flushed and her brows furrowed together.

“Thank you,” she managed out after a minute, “for being honest. For once.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pratt brushed the snow from his hair, teeth chattering as he waded through knee-deep snow out towards the water. It had been three days, and Helmi had told him to meet her out there—how she was going to get past the compound’s security, Pratt didn’t know, but he also thought it probably was best not to dwell on the things that Helmi would do (and could do) to get where she needed to be.

Which is why he found himself less and less surprised to find her standing at the edge of the water, in the middle of the night, swathed up to her jaw in dark, heavy fabrics. The only part of her that wasn’t covered were her hands; the closer he got, he could see she was turning a smooth, dark rock over and over in her hands, passing it between them as she watched him come nearer.

“You remembered,” was how she greeted him, most of her face cast in shadow thanks to the high position of the moon behind her. Pratt shivered and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

“Yeah, well, kinda hard to forget,” he replied. “Considering it’s been looming over me for the last few days.”

“Poor thing,” Helmi agreed, not sounding sympathetic at all. “Did you call her?”

Pratt paused, clearing his throat. There was something that didn’t quite sit right with him, knowing that he had called Elliot not out of a cry for her help—not really, anyway—but because this other cult wanted her. This cult, which had tore its way through Hope County splitting and gutting its residents, wanted her. And Helmi didn’t seem keen on telling him why.

“I did. They just got word that she and John are on the road now,” he said after a moment. “What, uh—do you want her for, anyway?”

Helmi quirked a brow at him, the corner of her mouth tilting upwards. “Shouldn’t you have asked that before making the phone call, if it was going to bother you?”

A little lick of shame and embarrassment crawled red-hot into his cheeks, and he scoffed, turning his face away. “Well, you said you wanted her alive. Can’t say the same for the Seeds.”

“She’s carrying John’s child,” Helmi pointed out. “You think they’d kill her still?”

Pratt grimaced. It was still hard to stomach—the idea that Elliot was with John. Or had been, at one point. It didn’t sound like things were going great, and he could only imagine why. Still—

Still, he thought there was a lesser of the two evils, and Helmi sounded like it. Maybe not the others, but Helmi.

“They don’t have a problem killing babies,” Pratt replied after a minute. “What are you going to do, once she gets here? They won’t let her leave, and they definitely won’t let you in.”

Now, the blonde grinned—pearly teeth in the dark of the night, surprisingly satisfied with herself. “Big one’s pissed at me, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Well, you know, Faith too. You've been killing her angels.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got a plan. You know exactly as much as you need to know right now. Are you eating?”

The question came so quickly that Pratt didn’t have time to register the oddness of it, replying on automatic the same way he had been with Arden’s consistent, gentle pestering: “Yeah, I mean—don’t have much of an appetite, but...”

His voice trailed off and he glanced back at the woman. Her head was cocked and her eyes were fixed on him expectantly. “What?”

“Eat,” she told him. “Take advantage of as much as you can. And most of all, listen. Any information you can get will be helpful.”

Pratt’s throat felt a little tight. He kept thinking about the way Jacob had grabbed his shoulder, laughing when he’d insulted the woman doing the heavy lifting for Joseph—grinning like a fucking wolf, like he was going to be dinner, next.

He managed out, “He’ll kill me. If he suspects. He’ll take—everything, from me.”

Helmi planted a hand on his shoulder. The gesture made him want to flinch, but he bit back the urge, and he thought maybe she’d seen but didn’t say.

“He already took everything from you,” she replied lightly, “and do you know what that means?”

The dark of her gaze was intense, piercing even in the late night; it made it hard to look away. Voices echoed back in the compound, and briefly, he thought maybe they’d noticed his absence—but he only shook his head.

“It means you have nothing to lose,” Helmi murmured, “and everything to take back from him.” Her hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, the pad of her thumb sweeping up to his pulsepoint pensively. “See? Your heart is beating, and hard. Your blood knows it’s what you want, even if you don’t yet.”

Swallowing thickly, he nodded his head once. Nothing to lose, and everything to take back. Could he? Could he get things back? Is that what Helmi had done? What Elliot had done?

“And don’t fuck it up,” she added, dropping her hand from his neck and zipping her coat up. Leaving so soon. She grinned. “Or I’ll gut you myself. And I guarantee, it won’t be an Återfödelse.”

A nervous, almost hysterical little laugh bubbled up out of him. Helmi shot him a look and then brushed past him, heading back into where the brush became the thickest, calling over her shoulder, “See you in a few days, Staci Pratt.”

A few days. A few days, Elliot would be back, and John Seed would be back, and Helmi would be seeing him. Seeing them. Maybe it would be better to make a break with Elliot, once she got in—but what if she didn’t want to? What if she was one of them?

Pratt let out a puff of hot breath, digging the heel of his palm into his eyesocket while the pain bloomed just there, turning and beginning to trudge back to the compound before anyone noticed his absence. Each scrape and puff of snow fell in line with his heartbeat, the mantra on and off again.

Nothing to lose.

Everything to take back.

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steve0discusses · 4 years ago

Text

Yugioh Ep 32 S4: Most Disturbing Kid’s Show Award Goes to This Episode

I often talk about how wonderfully effed up Yugioh is. What a freakin delight, how effed up this kid’s show is, somehow still remaining a Y7 kid’s show, despite everything it tries to do to get pulled off the air.

Y’all this was a filler season and it didn’t even have Bakura in it so...why did it go so edge? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for how many levels of “OK THERE, KID’S SHOW” it was.

But what the hell was that, Yugioh?

Anyway we start off completely normal in this foggy ass graveyard--Halloweens in this season so I’m down for this. Halloween is also...cancelled...this year, so at least I can celebrate it somewhat in a Yugioh episode. Then again, can you imagine how many people would be dressed up as sexy Covid?

So I don’t really talk about the card game mechanics on here, and (full disclosure to any new people) I don’t know how to play this game. But, considering that this card doesn’t usually send you to distant graveyard memories IRL, lets get into it.

We’ve clarified before that Card Graveyard is a place--like an actual place--but that it isn’t the same place that the cards vibe in within the Puzzle necklace. It’s a separate place, but ALSO not the same place as the Shadow Realm, either. Card Graveyard is just...some other third place we never talk about.

TBQH I think the people who make this show have kinda forgotten how many random pocket dimensions we’ve made that are basically the equivalent of hell (including California, PS), and are just like “no one will write a blog about it and list them all in one place, we’ll be fine.”

We’ve only seen Tristan bum out here once in like S1 and he spent most of his time running away from the Grim Reaper. But, if you remember correctly, the Grim Reaper is currently hanging out and living his best life haunting some park in Japan, so now instead of the Grim Reaper it has...this?

So is this a memory stored within the card graveyard, or did Dartz literally take Raphael to the card graveyard and tell him this was a real ass graveyard?

We’ll never know! It gets very vague from here on out!

(read more under the cut)

First off, I’d like to welcome our new guest star--the Rain--there’s a lot of rain in this episode, and we animate it by just making all of our characters glow. This comes through fine in animation, but in caps I just want you to know that no one has gone super Saiyan, they’re just...wet.

PS get a gander at Raphael’s baby boy mutton chop mustache. They somehow got longer with time? And also, when soaked his hair is just as spiky. Everyone on this show has unparalleled hair gel. The real heart of the cards.

Anyway, Dartz shows Raphael a bunch of gravestones and is like “Get it???”

and me, the audience, was like “no???”

The headstones, by the by, aren’t...normal, either, they have Orichalcos symbols on them instead of words. So like...it sort of infers that his family was taken by Orichalcos, too. I mentioned before that it sorta feels like Dartz caused the whole shipwreck to munch up a bunch of yummy souls, and maybe he did in the Japanese version--cuz like...

...why else do all these headstones have Orichalcos symbols on this graveyard that you can only access through a card god like Dartz or Yami?

Just throwing that deep lore out there, and the fact that Raphael can’t really see it or understand is either because that didn’t happen or...Dartz totally killed his family, right? And that makes this relationship between the two of them extremely effed up?

This is a great show for kids with separation anxiety.

Which is...somewhat convincing of a motive for Raphael. He gives Raphael a way to move on from his trauma in the past, and it’s not a GREAT way to move on--but it’s falls in line with things Dartz has done with his other card generals by offering false redemption.

Like Mai needed to move on from her insane jealousy, so Orichalcos was her way to prove she was better than Joey Wheeler (which, honestly, no one needed proof of). Alister needed to move on from his dead brother, so Orichalcos was his way to get revenge. Valon also had a backstory but a bunch of it got deleted in the English version apparently so...

And Rex and Weevil needed...cards? I guess? I think they just needed a ride, mostly. And Orichalcos can give you a ride. It’s not like we had Uber in 2003 and clearly they were not fit for Caltrain.

And like Gurimo.............existed...?

Anyways, they’re looking for justice that they can see. Justice for their pain. To make that pain worth something for more than just suffering. A system where this type of thing can’t happen anymore. But the thing about justice is that...eh...it’s probably not done through cards that kill people.

OH OK, KID’S SHOW.

Mmmmm take in that burying up your grave imagery. Again, this show is rated Y7 for 7 year olds, and I think that’s amazing.

Anyway, this is symbolism that is so heavy handed that it really needs no explanation, so he’s just gonna dig dig dig for...days I guess? Relive his trauma over and over again? Dig up that past like you’re a popular artist on twitter and you gotta make all of your followers relive that time you got called out because you offended a hell ton of people?

(Which is so many people on art twitter right now, ps, you don’t even know which one I’m talking about because It’s SO MANY of them. Art twitter during Quarantine is like watching the fall of Rome but it’s freakin Art Twitter. Everyone’s the freakin worst and just poopin all over themselves as they roll all the way down the steps.)

But I want to know. Who’s grave this is? It has a slightly different meaning if it were his family’s or his own. I guess I’ll have to save it for the fanfiction.

And so to add another level of spook, Raphael’s card mom shows up and kinda just stands there with a sad face?

Raphael’s reaction to seeing his card just alive and hanging out was “I’ll get to you in a sec, I gotta do some unforgivable evil, first.“

WHERE DID THEY GO?

These two shots are like nearly back to back. They’re just GONE. No explanation.

And yes I’m gonna talk about the outfit because it makes no freakin sense, even for a Yugioh card. Granted, this was a show made in Japan, for kids, with a budget that had a limit. A lot of people get involved with these productions, many aren’t artists or historians versed in American History, just basic ass business people. That be TV.

But her outfit looks waaay too modern. Like she’s gonna go to a musical festival, drop acid and climb on top of a statue and take a bunch of instagram selfies and regret all of them 4 years later. If these are Atlantean cards, this is not an Atlantis outfit to match with Dartz, who has been dressed vaguely medieval. So whyyyyy would this girl be dressed more like a vague old western costume bought at a discount so she could vogue in front of installation art at Burning Man in 2008?

Anyway, I won’t even get into the bird that is slowly devouring her face as a stand in for a headdress or wtv. Just a lot of stuff happening here and I just wanna say, Yugioh did it so you won’t need to. Just delete that desire. Yugioh already did it so you are now free from wanting to draw...anything like this problematic situation on your own OCs.

And then Yugioh predicts exactly how I’d feel about this outfit.

And she then lights ON FIRE and falls dead into the grave he just buried for her.

And in case you were like “kinda on the nose there, Yugioh, that got DARK” she climbs out of his own grave with a spooky ass face and no more coconuts to share with her bros and he’s like...

Rapheal’s reaction was like...Ya OK I can get used to this, and Yami is just pointing at the scene desperately trying to follow Raphael’s brain waves.

And like, this is YAMI.

Yami just walked through Yugi Hell earlier today. He’s seen some stuff. He’s already undug his own grave this morning in a more poetic card sort of way. But Raphael’s memories of literally digging up his family’s graves with his bare hands because Dartz told him to was...stuff he didn’t want to see today. (especially since it’s super suggested Dartz was the one who...murdered them in the first place, like I know it’s a reach but...it just feels like we were supposed to reach that conclusion)

But whether or not Dartz put the bodies here or gave Raphael a bunch of phoney graves, Raphael is still essentially siding with the guy who ruined the only thing he has left of his family--this paper card mom--and turned it into an undead evil Mom. And it just had...no freakin impact on Raphael at all.

Like what?

He just murdered your card mom. This is fine?

Card shenanigans continue and Raphael eventually realizes what he should have realized like 10 years ago when he was digging up graves and killing card Mom’s. That maybe it’s a bad idea. So Raphael decides to sacrifice his remaining monsters to “free” them from the graveyard and basically commits suicide. There’s no other way to say it, really. He kills himself.

But wait, right when you figure this episode will end like every other Orichalcos fight before it...They decide not to.

Like an angel from heaven, our drunk ass looking music concert reject descends from the clouds, along with all of Raphael's dead family members!

Yeah.

I REALLY didn’t expect them to show up. This was so much content it’s like...an entire season of any other TV show. I say that a lot with Yugioh but these episodes really like to just jam-pack it in there.

And here I thought I’d actually have to take them off the Death Count one day. Here I thought 4 kids would do something to like...prevent this many dead kids, but I was wrong.

Everyone’s HELLA DEAD.

it’s both vindicating to actually say that, despite 4kids, these kids absolutely died, but also disturbing because even Raphael is like “ah, the hallucinations today are really swell, right?”

NO, GHOST CHILD.

DON’T TELL ME THAT.

And I’ve been over before how “heart of the cards” is a catch-all phrase that can mean literally anything in this show, and it’s not the first time that cards have kept someone’s spirit around. No word on his family members if they are thrilled to be trapped in a Pharaoh situation, or whether they only occasionally drop from the heavens, or whether they have actually been the spirit that was within each of these cards the whole time. I don’t know.

And so the card family “cures” one of the most evil people on this show.

He’s fine now. This guy murdered the hell out of Yugi, our main character, but don’t think nor worry about it. This isn’t the show to worry about such things.

This show has Marik.

Bro and I were talking Star Wars the other day, and mostly about the Kylo Ren arc and how a lot of people happened to dislike that particular ending. Mostly about how there is a difference between your character being redeemed and being forgiven. I think this children’s show wants to redeem Raphael, but honestly, much like Kylo Ren--he’s just forgiven. And that’s fine. You don’t need to have your characters redeemed. We can stop at forgiveness.

And also, Yami forgives him immediately because he knows he can’t throw a single damn stone, his house is made out of 2 mm of extremely problematic glass.

Man, RIP Weevil, right?

Weevil who just pretended to rip up a card that could have been Yugi and got tossed off the freakin Caltrain? Raphael got off so freakin lucky and I am boggled he’s still alive. He freakin killed Yugi!

The injustice to Weevil right now, omg. Not like I enjoy Weevil. I super don’t enjoy that character. But DAMN. Yami murdered Weevil for even mentioning Yugi. Just feels like there’s a bit of a hypocritical line here in how the justice is dished out and...that tracks for a Pharaoh so I’ll just let it go.

And also, looking at that sunshine and I’m pretty sure they’ve been up over 48 straight hours. No one’s slept since Yugi died, right? I mean Yami is fine. We know from Bakura that puzzle people don’t need to sleep, or eat, or have blood in their body. But like Seto really needs to get Mokuba to bed.

(Although I am 85% positive that Mokuba is still part Noah Kaiba so it is...also unlikely that kid sleeps anymore, just leaving Mokuba’s future therapist so much to unpack.)

The GALL of this show right now.

Of all the generals--they saved RAPHAEL? Arguably the worst one?

I would take even Alister. I would take even Weevil.

Raphael?

I mean if he ends up as the next Duke Devlin, just driving us around for the final season of this show I guess I’ll accept this but, damn.

Raphael?

Are you sure, Yugioh???????????????????????????????????

Can’t we just let that guy die? He’s basically dead already, Yugioh. This guy does NOT want to be alive anymore. Literally everyone he cares about is super dead and now he doesn’t even have Card mom because she sacrificed herself to save his soul. This GUY.

I can’t believe Mai is dead but we still have Raphael.

The same disappointment when I watch British Bake off, man, they just...sometimes they save people and I’m like...no man...that one can’t bake. Just because they pulled something off last second does not mean they get to the semifinals. Raphael can’t bake.

Anyway, the episode attempts to end on a cliffhanger but like.

Just want to reiterate how common and boring Earthquakes usually are to a Californian. This was the most normal thing in this episode.

Man.

Freakin Raphael.

Anyway, if you just got here and is like “I don’t know who the hell Raphael even is,” Yeah, I know, I didn’t think twice about the dude until like just now, but if it’s because you’ve never seen my recaps before, I’ll direct you to the link to read these in Chrono order:

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yugioh/chrono

Anyway, stay safe and have a very happy and safe Halloween alone eating your own carmel dipped apple slices.

#yugioh #ygo #recap #photo recap #yami muto #seto kaiba #raphael #weird redemption arc #tristan taylor #tea gardner #mokuba kaiba #joey wheeler #'s still a corpse #someone digs up their own grave at some point #it gets very dark for a character I have literally no interest in #and then like they're cured? freakin #this one was like for the Raphael fans in the house #shout out to you guys I know you must exist or else why is this episode even here?

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viking-raider · 4 years ago

Note

So this is super random I know and you don't have to answer if you don't want to but I always liked Henry but only like a week ago did I start to pay more attention to him and I know he said something bad about the me too movement and I also know that he apologized even tho people said it as a weak apology but I just needed to know someone elses opinion and if something else was said you know bc his comment really did bother me even tho I kinda feel like he just didn't explain himself

I’ve given my thoughts and opinions on this subject several times since I joined the Cavillry.

I wasn’t in the fandom, or even took notice to Henry at the time he said what he said about the movement. However, part of me, from reading the interview on what he said and his apology and what else I know about Mr. Cavill, tho I and not really anyone else in the fandom knows him personally, all we have to go on it what we see in interviews, his Instagram and so on, which doesn’t give the full prospective of who Henry really is or isn’t, I think and feel he put his foot in his mouth, he probably didn’t explain and elaborate what he was saying and meant very well, and he didn’t seem to have the full information and prospective on what the movement is, and people just jumped one that train and have been riding it ever since, and by the time he did apologize people were stubborn and on a justice binge, so his apology wouldn’t be good enough for them cause they consumed themselves with what he said; while missing stops along the way that could have given them more information on the matter. People that dislike Henry will only take the stops that vindicate their point and it can be true with people that only take the stops where he looks good.

We need the full picture and its not something we’re really going to get unless somehow we meet Henry and become acquaintances with him and learn about him on that level.

He put a foot in his mouth with the movement comment, but he also did something not many people the criticized the movement haven’t done, and probably won’t do, he apologized, weakly or otherwise, he at least admitted he was wrong and tried to enlighten himself on the matter. Other than the comments on his choice to date at 19 year old at 32, which is over the age of consent in the US and the UK, I’ve never heard or notice any of Henry’s exes have a bad thing to say about him, they always seem to part ways under decent and mutually respect. His friends like Joey, Anya, Armie and Luke all say great things about him, so do his normal friends like Corey, and they know Henry on a personal level we don’t.

He fucked up, he owned it. People need to move the hell on and stop crucifying people over an instance in their life, like they’ve never done something equally as stupid in their life.

#Henry Cavill #HenryCavill #Viking-Raider Answers #Anon

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grumpyhedgehogs · 6 years ago

Text

These Kids These Days with Their Ink Machines

Summary: In which Henry is much too old for this and decides to go home. Surprisingly, this course of action works out well for pretty much everybody.

Notes: I just realized I never cross-posted this on tumblr so here you go. That being said, my Henry is definitely Grandpa!Henry rather than Dad!Henry. He's old and tired, and he wears a bushy beard and ugly sweaters when he shows up to fight demons. As you do. As I said in the tags, only some past violence and very (very) light gore that is depicted in the game. Still, if you are uncomfortable with talking about past murders, steer clear. Otherwise, enjoy! P.S.: The working title of this was: Henry Saves Everybody By Being Old And Grumpy

Henry is standing knee deep in ink and God knows what else when he makes up his mind. It’s a decision he should have made before turning on the Ink Machine, before coming to the studio, hell, before opening Joey Drew’s blasted letter.

It’s a decision he makes, simply, over the ominous creaking in his knees.

“All right, that’s enough for me,” Henry says, and turns right back around to get in the elevator again. In the corner, Boris tilts his head and twitches his nose questioningly. Henry pats him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“No need to worry, Boris.” He sighs and scrubs a gnarled hand through his hair. “I’ve just come to the realization that I’m much too old for these shenanigans.”

Boris perks his ears and wisely does not agree to Henry being old. Smart wolf.

“Come on then, let’s go talk to Ms. Angel about these ridiculous requests of hers.”

Boris decidedly does not like that plan.

“Come now, little errand boy, you can’t have collected my hearts so easily, could you? Maybe I’ll just have to take yours inst-”

“That’s enough of that nonsense, miss. Please come out here now, I’d like a word.”

Alice doesn’t reply for a moment but Henry can hear a faint indignant squawk before the intercom cuts off. After some time, the doors beneath the “She’s Quite a Gal” sign slide open just a crack. He can see her unearthly eye peering out at him. Her halo glows above her, casting Alice’s face into severe shadows.

Henry is far too tired to come off as half as terrified as he suspects Alice wants him to be.

“Excuse me?” Alice’s tone is dangerous and soft. “You think you can wander into my web and tell me what to do? The more you fight, little fly, the more pain-“

Henry levels an expression he used to use to get Joey to do what he wanted at her. She shuts her mouth with an audible click; after a moment Alice seems to be at a loss as to how to proceed, so Henry feels it safe to step in.

“Now, I need you to listen to what I’m saying, young lady.” She twitches, but his fatherly expression stops her from retreating. “I am much too old for all the hullabaloo that’s going on around this place. I figure if I keep going like this my heart’s just going to plum give out. My doctor told me I have to take it easy these days, you know?”

“Uh,” Alice replies, dumbfound. What is going on? This is not according to plan.

Henry stuffs his hands in his pockets and blows out an exaggerated breath. “Now, I’m thinking we’ve only got a few options here.”

This is the first time he’s heard Alice sound hesitant. “Options?”

“Well yes, as to how we’re all getting out of here,” Henry replies blithely. “Now, I do have a van, on account of never getting rid of it when my kids grew up and went off to college-remind me to show you some photographs, I’ve got them around here somewhere- so I can take maybe five? That’ll fit me, you, Boris of course, and three others. Maybe I could take the Butcher Gang? Hm, but I’d rather like to collect Bendy and Norman myself, I mean someone has to keep an eye on them. Sammy too, for that matter. I know there’s at least one company van left in the parking lot, and it looked like maybe it could still run if we jump started it- do you know how to drive?”

“What,” says Alice. The doors creak open more, revealing her in all her stained glory. Behind Henry, Boris cowers back, pulling his ears down over his eyes. She feels sick vindication at his fear slip through her veins like poison; but Henry doesn’t move.

“Do you know how to drive?” He repeats. “It’ll be much easier to get out if two of us could drive.”

“You-I- you want to leave…”

“Yep.”

“…With us?”

“Yessiree Bob.”

“That-That’s so stupid!”

Henry tilts his head at her. “Why?”

“We-I- everyone’s trying to kill you! We’re monsters.”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “That’s a terrible argument, because I don’t agree with your self-assessment. Besides, I’m sure we can work things out with a nice, rational conversation later. Maybe over hot chocolate, that makes everything better. Now, are you ready to go?”

“But,” Alice glances around uncertainly, a little desperate. She feels like she’s grasping at straws here, like she’s trying to hold onto thoughts that slip through her fingers like water. Boris isn’t cowering anymore. “But why?”

“Oh honey,” Henry says, reaching out arthritic fingers to push her hair out of her face. Alice feels the cold husk in her chest thump once, twice, hard. “Did you think I’d leave without you all?”

Alice only looks a little out of place, standing between himself and Boris. After all the stuttering and wavering she did when he explained their escape plans, the wolf has lost a good bit of that unhealthy fear of the angel.

Not that Henry can blame her. Poor thing has been cooped up all alone in her tower for too long. And who knew how Joey had treated her before that. Young woman just needs some rest and a good talking to, to get her head on straight.

Henry figures he’s retired; he has enough free time on his hands to help with that.

“So, I think I heard Sammy rambling about a few floors up,” He says conversationally as the cage slides into position. “Shall we?”

A few Searchers flop and scramble forward before he even steps out. “None of that now, please,” Henry makes his tone sharp and authoritative. The Searchers stop, motionless. It looks like they turn their heads towards each other for a moment, before looking back at the animator, sightless and bewildered.

Henry looks at Alice. “You know these little guys more than me. Do you think there’s any way to help them out?”

The Searchers perk up at that. One face plants into Henry’s right knee and wraps its arms around his pant leg.

“I-“ Alice falters for a moment, wringing her hands. The sight softens Henry’s expression and Alice seems to find her voice. “I don’t think they can leave the Ink Machine. And they-they’re in pain. The voices in the ink…”

“Oh.” Henry tries to ignore the lump in his throat. All the pain Joey had caused-how much of it could have been avoided if he had been here to talk Drew down? “They’re hurting, aren’t they? And there’s only one way to stop it.”

Alice nods and shuts her eyes for a moment. Boris trembles, but pats her quickly on the shoulder. Memories of being in the ink were never good. “We’ll have to shut down the Machine.”

Henry nods, and gently passes his palm over the Searcher’s formless back. “I’m sorry, little buddy. It’ll be okay soon.” The Searcher nods and turns back to his friends, seeming to communicate soundlessly to them.

Two more Searchers wrap themselves around Henry’s knees before allowing them to move forward. Boris watches quietly as they faded back into the ink puddles.

“Sammy Lawrence, you stop that right now.”

Sammy jumps, fumbling with the paint brush and bucket of ink in his hands. Henry stands a few feet behind him, flanked by Alice and Boris. Sammy tries not to flinch at the sight of the angel. It has been a long time since he last saw her.

“Sheep!” He exclaims, preparing himself to leap forward.

“No.” Henry snaps, and Sammy deflates. “Now, that is no way to treat your workspace, and I‘d have thought a man as meticulous as you would be ashamed of such behavior.”

“I-I-”Sammy splutters for a moment, “I am doing this for my Demon Lord, so he knows that I serve him-“

“Hogwash,” Henry snorts. “You’re still just as overdramatic as usual, Sammy, although the man I knew at least knew how to retain his pride.”

“How dare-“

“Now listen here, and listen good,” Henry interrupts again and good God of the Ink, the old animator never knew when to leave well enough alone did he, “I’m taking all of us out of this hellhole and I don’t want to hear any complaining. There are going to be a few rules, in fact.”

“What,” Sammy says, as Alice giggles unexpectedly. Boris bumps his shoulder into hers and grins. She’s not half as intimidating when she’s smiling, Sammy realizes vaguely.

Henry takes no notice of their childish behavior, and wags his finger at Sammy instead. “There will be no praying to demons, singing of hymns or giving sermons on this trip. You are not to antagonize or make the others uncomfortable with your worship and you are to tell me when you are upset instead of using idolizing Bendy as a terrible coping mechanism. And no calling anyone sheep. That’s just weird, Sammy.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, sheep-“

He cuts himself off with one glance at Henry’s expression. Alice leans forward conspiratorially. “The Dad Look only gets worse, Lawrence. It’s best just to give in, trust me.”

“Huh,” Sammy says, feeling his ink receding from where it dripped down his mask. Henry smiles at him from over his spectacles. “Well then. Alright, Henry.”

Norman Polk was never a very loud man, which made his screeching as a projector monster just plain uncharacteristic, in Henry’s humble opinion.

“Oh, will you stop that racket,” Henry says, and the Projectionist obediently pulls up short before barreling into him. Ink still splashes onto his chest, though, and Henry mourns the loss of his favorite orange sweater. “Really Norman, what has gotten into you?”

“IIIInnnnkkk…” Howls the speaker in Norman’s chest.

“Alright,” Henry concedes, “That’s a fair point. Would you like some help with that?”

The speaker hums confusedly, increasing in pitch until Henry claps his hands over his ears. “Just a nod or a shake, please!”

The hum stops before- “Hennn-Hennn-rrr-eee?”

“Yes, old pal,” Henry says, “what say you we get outta here? You look like you could use a vacation. Or retirement, as it were.”

The Projectionist rears back, its light blinding Henry and for a moment he thinks maybe he misjudged this, that he’s going to get a face full of claws on behalf of someone who used to be a good friend-

The light dims, the Projectionist hunches back down, and his mechanical head dips twice. Before pulling back, Henry reaches out and lays his hand alongside the projector. The metal is warm. “Good. Let’s go home, then.”

The Butcher Gang huddles around a flaming barrel at the back of the toy warehouse, where the elevator doesn’t reach. By the time Henry has cleared all the stairs to get down there, he’s breathing a bit too heavily. He leans back on the banister and feels Boris place a worried hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine, son,” Henry tells him, wincing a little and rubbing his chest. “Just not as spry as I used to be. Give me a minute.”

Alice is back to wringing her hands. “Did I- I made this happen, didn’t I?”

Henry levels a look at her over his glasses. “Don’t take responsibility for things out of your control. Father Time did this to me, Ms. Angel. And the war. Although I suppose the ink fumes I inhaled all my career didn’t help my asthma. Don’t get old, kids.”

“We can’t,” Sammy says helpfully. Henry would reply, but the Butcher Gang is approaching cautiously.

“Well now, who do we have here,” Henry says, opening his hands welcomingly. “Let an old man have a look at you three.”

The Butcher Gang veritably break his heat. Every one of them look in pain or misshapen, even worse than Alice or Sammy. Alice and Sammy don’t have fishing poles in their necks or wooden limbs. Alice and Sammy can speak.

Still, Henry didn’t hold title of Head Animator at the studio for nothing. “Well, this’ll take a good bit of work, I can tell you that. But all in all, I think it’s quite salvageable, don’t you? We’ll have to collect some ink to take home with us, but I think we can fix you up in no time.”

Edgar’s stitched together lips mouth the word ‘home,’ and Henry feels a twist in his chest. He smooths his fingers of Barley’s head and smiles kindly. “Yes, kiddos, home. You wanna get out of this place with us? I’ve got my own fireplace.”

Soon, Henry is swarmed by tiny toons all trying to climb into his arms. Henry laughs, kneeling and wrapping them all in a hug. They remind him not in small part of his own children when they were young. So eager to please, and so excited for a new playmate.

Boris catches Charley under the armpits and heaves him up onto his own hip. After a moment, Norman follows the wolf’s lead and swings both Edgar and Barley onto his broad shoulders. The toons shuffle a bit, glancing worriedly between the stairs back to the elevator and Henry. Alice holds out her hand to help Henry up from his position on the floor, and Sammy takes his other side with ease.

“Now, now,” Henry says, trying to keep a stern face, “you’re going to make a man feel old with all your fussing.”

The crowd that spills out of the elevator as it reaches his floor is not at all what Bendy expects to see when he rounds the corner. It’s a mess, a tangle of limbs and stumbling and loud screeching. Bendy stands stock-still and watches it all unfold out of the doors like a clown car. It’s almost awe-inspiring.

“What are you doing, you’re going to hurt him, hanging onto him like that,” says a voice Bendy is startled to realize is Alice, “you know his back is bad-“

“I’m not holding onto him, Barley is, he won’t let go of his sweater- come on, sheep-uh, kid, we’re trying to get out of here it’s super cramped-“

“M-mmyyyyy fff-ff-fooooottt-“

“Alright, alright everybody, settle down.” Henry’s voice booms. Bendy has never heard –doesn’t remember hearing from his time of being ink on a page, staring up into those warm eyes, wondering what he’ll do next, which adventure will his creator send him on- the animator speak so loudly. “Single file, and no stepping on anyone’s toes. That’s it now. Watch the inkwells, we don’t want to make another trip for those.”

When Boris sees him, he yelps and points wildly in Bendy’s direction. Strangely enough, he seems excited, rather than scared.

Henry finally pops into view, dusting himself off and running a hand ruefully through his ink-stained beard. “What’s that now, Boris?”

Bendy steps forward; he feels that old anger, that hatred for the traitor who left him here, left him to be tormented by the likes of Joey Drew, who didn’t even care to look back, rise to the surface.

Henry levels a look at him over his glasses, mouth pulled into a tight, thin line and sighs at him disappointedly. Bendy stops. Bendy stares. Bendy tells himself he is not intimidated.

“Uh-oh,” Sammy mutters from behind Norman somewhere, “I remember that look.” Norman nods.

“Hush, you interfering miscreant,” Henry says, and although his expression doesn’t change, his voice is warm. It’s surprisingly warm still when he addresses Bendy. “Now, what in heavens are we going to do with you, hm?”

Bendy feels the ink on his spine bristle into spikes. Alice shuffles like she wants to step back, but glances at Henry, and stays. On his other side, Boris plants his feet and pulls a lead pipe from out of nowhere. Norman looms, protective and hulking, behind Henry.

“Oh would you all be terribly disappointed if we left the posturing for the teenage boys?” Henry sounds exasperated. He steps forward, towards Bendy and Bendy- doesn’t know quite what to do. No one has ever come toward him, after all. They mostly run away screaming. His spikes recede.

Ink drips down over his (confused, anxious, hateful, hopeful) grin as Henry says, grandfatherly, “Would you let me have a look at you, son?”

Bendy almost backs away as Henry steps up to him, but he is a fearsome ink demon who has taken the lives of any who stepped foot in this hell. He does not run away from old men in ridiculous sweaters.

Henry reaches up, up, up and gently, oh so gently, lays a wrinkled palm just at the edge of his grin. Bendy can’t -won’t- read the warm look in his eyes. “Well, it has been a long time, hasn’t it old friend? I missed you.”

His palm is warm, and rough, and reassuringly heavy. Almost against his will, Bendy lowers his head to Henry’s level, looks at him from inches away, and sees Henry for the first time.

He is old- older than Joey Drew was when Bendy ripped his heart out, older than Sammy was when he became what he is, older than Alice ever was. And he is tired- Bendy can see it in the corners of his eyes, the way his back won’t straighten like he has an awful weight on it, the way his knees are forever bent just a little. And he is terribly, horribly sad.

“Joey really did a number on you, huh, buddy.” Henry says, and he is so quietly miserable, like he’s seen into Bendy’s (non-existent?) heart and shares his sorrow, “I never should have left you alone. I’m sorry, pal.”

Henry’s trembling fingers slip through the ink on Bendy’s face, slicking it away, and Bendy’s eyes see the light of day for the first time in thirty years. His first real sight, not plagued with ink, is his Creator’s solemn, hopeful smile.

Bendy feels like crying.

So he does, loud and quaking and right there in front of so many in the middle of the place he has been tortured in for years, where he’s killed so many for what they have done to him. Where he cannot- will not- kill his last Creator.

Henry pulls him forward, tucks his chin between Bendy’s horns, and rubs his back.

“It’s okay Bendy,” he hears Henry murmur, “You’re okay now. We’re gettin’ outta here, all of us. We’re going home. It’s going to be okay, you’ll see.”

Bendy curls around his Creator, clutches him close, and doesn’t let go for a long time.

Bendy shows them to the Ink Machine. It is, predictably, based near Joey’s old office. The last few yards, the hallway is lined with Searchers, all watching, sightless, as Henry follows the Ink Demon to where all of this began.

Henry and Bendy step into the Machine’s room, but Alice and Boris stop at the threshold. None of the others seem intent on coming with, so Henry smiles and nods understandingly.

This ends how it was started: with him and Bendy.

At the side of the room, connected to the Ink Machine with thick wires and tubes, is a simple switch labeled “POWER.” Joey was never one for subtlety, Henry ponders, faintly amused.

Before he has taken even a step towards the switch, Bendy lays a light hand on Henry’s arm. He holds up a terrifyingly large syringe filled with ink, and gestures toward Henry, then toward Joey’s office, then to the syringe and back to Henry.

Henry gets it. “Oh no, my boy, I’m much too old for that attempting to obtain immortality nonsense. Having bad knees for eternity? Count me out, thanks. Let’s just get this done, shall we?”

Bendy nods and lets out a low growling hum. Together they cross to the switch. Together they grasp it. Together they end the Ink Machine once and for all.

As it turns out, Sammy can drive still. Allegedly.

“I was the best driver here, Henry.” Sammy says, incredulous.

“You were the flashiest driver here,” Henry corrects as Norman nods vigorously, “and that car of yours was a deathtrap.”

“Beulah,” Sammy supplies wistfully, “I wish she were still around. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get us out of here and back to your house. I’ll even be following you! Easy-peasy.”

“Do you even have eyes? I don’t believe you can see the road, no matter what you say.”

“I can walk without bumping into things can’t I? It’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not like we have that many options here.”

Henry glances around; Alice is missing an eye (he can totally fix that, he’s already mentally set aside an inkwell for her), Boris is a wolf and it is questionable if he even knows what a car is, Bendy has six inch claws, the Butcher Gang is much too short and have between them only three or four defined eyes, and Norman- Norman is a projector.

He sighs. He sucks it up. He sends a quick prayer to anyone out there.

“Fine. But I’m gonna be having Alice check on you in the mirrors the entire time, got it?”

Sammy bounces on his heels and his mask moves as if he may be smiling.

Henry tugs on his beard once more and says, “Alright, here’s how we do it; Bendy, Alice and Boris are with me. Norman and the Butcher Gang will fit more comfortably together in the van with Sammy. Any questions?”

“Yes,” Alice says, raising her hand like they're in school. “How are we going to get the van running? It looks dead.”

Henry hadn’t thought of that passed the usual “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” reasoning.

“That,” he says, deadpan, “is a good question Ms. Angel.”

There’s a crash behind them. Henry spins, heart in his mouth, to see Norman pulling haphazardly at the wires connected to the back of his head.

“Norman!” Henry leaps forward, almost tripping over the curb before Bendy catches him around the waist. “What in the blazes are you-“

Paying no heed, Norman shoves his wiring into the van’s battery and flips an unseen switch on the back of his own head. His projector light dims a moment and then-

The engine sparks, trembles, and turns over.

“Huh,” Alice says faintly behind Henry. Boris whines happily.

“That’s convenient,” Sammy sounds cheerful, “all aboard then, right Henry?”

The drive out to Henry's home is a long one. He chats idly with Alice on the way, ignoring Boris's cold nose poking into his neck. The wolf's ears flap in the wind from the open window, but Boris is loving the smells of the outside world, so Henry doesn't have the heart to roll it up just yet.

"Who is this?" Alice asks, fingers brushing over a worn photo of his late wife in his wallet.

"Linda," Henry sighs with a bittersweet smile shot at her before turning back to the road. "My wife. She was a gem."

"She's very pretty," Alice murmurs softly.

Henry reaches out blindly, and smiles when her fingers wrap tightly around his. Her hand is cold, but that's alright; he's warm enough for them both.

"She was a spectacular woman. She would have wanted to save you just as much as I do. You would have loved her."

"She's-" Alice falters and Boris whines sadly, pressing his nose more firmly into the crook of Henry's neck from behind. "She's gone?"

"Human nature, honey," Henry says gently. "I'm alone now, but that's alright. I've made my peace with it."

Boris whines again. Sammy's lights flash in the rear-view mirror.

"You're not alone anymore, Creator," Alice says quietly. Henry squeezes her hand, catches Bendy's eye in the mirror, and grins.

"I guess not, huh?"

Bendy smiles back, softer now, content. From out of thin air, in the darkness and out of sight, his hands pull out that strange syringe. He turns it over in his fingers, watching his Creator lead them to safety, and contemplates immortality.

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writinanon · 6 years ago

Text

Gods and Monsters

I’ve been watching/playing God of War 2018. I love Dad of Boy. It’s great. I never really liked the originals because I didn’t like the very dark tone it took with no only the Mythology but with Kratos. He’s forced to kill/lose everyone he loves and cares for. I like how it’s made him jaded, and you can clearly see how deeply he loves Atreus but he’s almost afraid to care about him. It’s just great. And he’s always been a very loving father because while he was a Spartan he and his wife chose to risk everything for their sickly daughter instead of abandoning her.

Anyway @wafflii has Dakota, who will grow over the course of the story

@yanderedad has Ben, who is the twin Brother of Mercy in this story.

and @azm0n has August, who is still young and growing

Hope was a land of many Deities, it had started simply as a stopping point between Realms before growing and becoming something more. The blend of different types of Gods was what gave it strength. Those Native to the Lands had been justifiably wary when the First Two came. But the pair had been seeking quiet, solitude, they did not look to take the place of the Native Gods or conquer. They merely wished for a place to rest. Hope acted as a stop, a resting place with few choosing to stay. It wasn’t until much later that the pair would actively seek refuge within the mountains and fields of Hope. So, when the Seeds arrived in the heart of Winter, Hope was expecting them to move on once the heavy snows have passed. But they didn’t. They were like those that didn’t belong in the Valley. They came to take and conquer.

Ben looked up from his place in the fields with some of his followers. He had been granted the titled of God of Wisdom when the seat was left open. Lately however, his followers were being attacked. Those attacking called his patrons false and claimed him a false idol. They had never been in the area before. Some of his patrons had turned to this new emerging God as they found comfort in his talk of destruction and rebirth. It concerned him that they would seek out such a message but he wouldn’t put it passed this new God to poison the minds of others.

“Benjamin.” Joseph smiled from his place on the edge of the field. “I wondered if perhaps we might speak? I assure you I do not wish us enemies.” But Ben’s hackles were raised. He was the twin brother of the God of War, he knew when someone intended to harm him. Joseph might not see it as harm, the three Brothers taking to calling themselves the Seeds and Joseph was the Seed of Knowledge, but whatever he planned would hurt Ben. He stood and brushed himself off, his dark auburn hair falling around his ears. Mercy had cut it recently, remarking that it looked better shorter. A few strands fell into his cinnamon colored eyes. Some of his followers looked greatly unsettled.

“If you wanted to speak, why not seek me in the House?” That was where he spent a good deal of time when not with his Sister or with his followers. He weighed on the laws and rules governing them and their land with Earl, Joey, and a few lesser gods and goddesses of law and morals and ethics. “Why have you come here?” It has been a long time since Ben had been in a fight. Along time since he felt the weight of his spear and shield in his hands. But he felt their press easily. He was sure that Joseph could see their outline. He continued to smile that hollow smile.

“I simply wished to speak to you, away from those that might seek to influence you against me. I am new.”

“Then ask for a privet audience.” That clearly bristled Joseph; he was used to his commands being listened to, used to being in charge. “I will ask you to leave at once.” His voice crackled with power and the sky above them churned, threatening to poor rain. Joseph nodded, bowing his head and turned to leave.

“Very well Benjamin. I shall see you later.” He left turning his back fully to Ben.

“My Lord?” He looked down at Kim. She was soon to be married and they were looking for the right kinds of flowers to offer blessings. “Is it wise to just let him go?”

“Perhaps not. But for now, let’s not think of him. Let’s think of you and Nick.” He smiled and she looked worried but nodded slowly.

“Nick doesn’t like the youngest of them? John. He says he has come to the fields where Dakota and August fly and ‘shows off’. He didn’t make it sound playful.” Nick would be a patron of Dakota is the messenger goddess had patrons or higher standing. Nick had petitioned many times that she should be a Full God but Dakota had not matured enough, had not come into enough power to be a True God yet.

“I shall speak with Earl, he’ll cool John’s heels. Or he’ll send Joey after him.” The Goddess of Justice and Vindication was not someone to mess with. And she did not appreciate a new ‘law’ god arriving and just taking residence in Hope without even asking permission to stay from the Counsel like all others had.

News of Jacob Seed’s challenges to the Attendants of the God of War has spread like wild fire. Ben looked in on Eli and Jess, they were healing slowly. The challenge, more like a barely legal assault, has been meant to maim and brutalize, to humiliate, but not to kill. If he killed them, he would be exiled. Or be forced to take their place.

“I’m gonna stick an arrow through both his eye sockets.” Jess seethed, flinching as she tried to sit up.

“You’re not going anywhere. The Lord has commanded it.” Eli frowned at her and then looked to Ben. “Don’t let our Lord do anything rash.” As he finished a bell was wrong. It was the one signaling a challenge.

“The God of Strength has challenged the Hermit God of Healing!” The three looked in horror before Jess pushed herself up.

“I’m going.” She stated and Ben nodded, lifting her easily.

“I’m afraid I can’t carry you both.”

“Hey! Someone need a lift?” Dakota asked as she appeared, swift as the wind. August was on her heels. The Wind God helping to speed up her travels.

“I’ve been summoned to bare witness.” She murmured tensely.

The pair stood in the square. Despite the chill of Spring, Jacob as without a shirt and had his large knife in hand. His leather trousers had some stains of blood on them that had darkened to black and his heavy boots seemed to stomp into the ground. His pack of wolves were seated around his siblings.

“I, the God of Strength, challenge you, the God of Healing in Battle.” Mercy had shifted her cloak to hang behind her as he spoke.

“I accept your challenge.” She pulled the cloak fully from her shoulders. She wore a black tunic with herbs stitched in red around the collar. They were healing herbs from their Home. The sleeves reached her elbows. Her leather trousers were tucked carefully into her boots and both were lashed with cords. Her Axe rested upon her back gleaming bright in the sun.

“Birgir, Brother of Bóthildr, you are called to bare witness for her.” Earl called. Ben settled Jess into Mary May’s arms, the mortal baring the weight of the goddess easily, and stepped forward.

“I agree to bare witness.”

“Joseph, Brother of Jacob, you are called to bare witness for him.” The Lord of Law and Protection was frowning harshly at the new comers.

“I agree to bare witness.” Joseph stepped forward as well.

“Quetzalli, God of Winds, you are called forth to witness and declare the end.” Earl looked to August and she shifted Eli’s weight to Dakota before stepping up to take her place. Her short black hair was ruffled and her eyes turned a bright turquoise before settling back into their deep cocoa color.

“I will witness and declare the victor.” She said firmly. Ben took Mercy’s cloak and frowned at her in concern but she gave a soft smile.

“It cannot be denied forever, my Brother.” She mused to him before she stepped forward. The leader of her ‘pride’ of Cougars and Lynx nudged at Ben’s hip and he stepped back. One blue eye and one green eye looked up at him before focusing on her Mistress.

Mercy had not been called Bóthildr in a long time. The warmth of her True name curled low in her belly and she palmed the handle of her Axe. This would be a short fight.

Jacob dodged another swing of the Axe, electricity sizzling in the air and causing him to be shocked. He stumbled back. A simple God of Healing, no matter the type of healing, should not have been this strong. She had a few minor nicks in her tunic from where he had managed to graze the clothe with his blade but she remained completely calm.

“Do tell, Jacob.” Her voice had an odd lilt to it. “Are you even trying to hit me?” He bristled, felt his pack bristle with him. They could no aid him in this challenge. His Judges were unable to be used as the proper tools they were in this provenance. Once he had control of the God of War, he would fix that. And the poor excuses for soldiers. He needed to lure him out though. He hadn’t come when the first two attendants fell, but this one. Oh, he might come out when this one fell.

“It’s only polite to let a lady have her hits.” He called back and her amusement turned to irritation.

“Kick his ass Mercy!” The tiny one that John seemed fascinated with called out. The God, Mercy, chuckled and nodded.

“Yes, I think I shall.” And then the air shifted. It felt like the breath had been pulled from his lungs. The Healing God ceased to be and in her place was a completely different one. “Allow me to correct you upon my Nature, boy. I am Bóthildr, God of War and Healing. I hail from far across the bright ocean. This has become my home. And you shall not take my Throne.” Her eyes shifted from a piercing blue into a blazing vermilion.

The wounds inflicted by her Axe burned and dug deep. She used both the blade and the hilt, her aggression wouldn’t be satisfied with merely slicing him to ribbons. By the time she had him on his knees he was covered in their color. She scoffed and readied her blade. His head would look nice mounted upon her mantle.

“Enough!” August called out sharply. “He is beaten. Bóthildr is the victor!” Mercy stilled and looked down at the defeated God of Strength. She leaned closer, letting the blade bite into his neck just slightly.

“You might have the strength of Youth. But I am Old and Learned. Never challenge me or mine again. Or I will kill you. And your brothers should they attempt to enact revenge for your deserved death.” She pulled back and hooked her Axe onto the mount on her back. Her Brother settled her cloak over her shoulders and she smiled, hand touching his shoulder before settling on the head of Peaches. Her companion gave a warm purr and they walked away. The Gods and people gave her wide birth, she had always been a stranger, a thing to fear, but now they knew she was a Monster. She nodded to the Whitehorse before taking her attendants and leaving.

August and Dakota followed Ben to Mercy’s cabin. Jerome and Grace the God of Shelter and Written Knowledge and the Goddess of Swift Justice and Vengeance were already there and waiting for them.

“You could have let her cut his head off.” Grace muttered once they were all settled. Mercy was wrapping bandages around Jess’ thigh.

“As much as I would have relished in starting a New War it would not have been in Hope’s best interest.” The God admitted. Her eyes had not returned to their usual winter blue, remaining a bright almost pulsing red. She tied off the bandage and moved to look over her ribs.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were the God of War?” August ignored the jab at her and the disapproval radiating off Grace and Jess. They had both come to hate the God of Strength in their territory but knew that they couldn’t challenge him outright because he was a Strength God and going at him head on was not something they could do.

“He wouldn’t last a day out in the woods without those beasts of his.” Jess hissed and flinched as Mercy pressed healing magic into the bruises along her lower ribs. “My Lord, really all of this is unnecessary.”

“Hush and let me do my work.” Mercy murmured, never lifting her eyes from the wounds. Her hands were steady.

“How are you so calm? And why didn’t you come help Eli and Jess sooner if you’re such a powerful God?” August didn’t like not knowing. She didn’t like to think that she had become attached to something fake.

“August.” Ben chided her softly.

“No, it’s fine Brother.” Mercy rose and turned to face August. “Quetzalli, you come from a land of many Gods, your Father is the Great Feathered Serpent. Do you brag of the things you did? Do you recall the path that lead you to coming to Hope?” August felt her throat close. She didn’t like to think on it but she accepted what she had done.

“I never hid my True Nature.”

“Nor have I. My secondary Nature is to Heal those in Battle. My Brother and I came here for peace. Long, long ago I was forced to make a decision. I chose a bloody path, I chose a War against my own Kin. All that remain are my attendants and my Brother.”

“But you’re not that way anymore… Right?” Dakota asked softly. Mercy didn’t look away from August.

“I am what I am. God of War.” She turned and Jess pushed her towards Eli and she nodded, beginning to attend once again to his wounds.

Grace looked at the dark forest.

“They’ll be gunning for her and you. Not that they weren’t already.”

“John is getting closer and closer to Earl with each passing day. Are you and Joey going to challenge him together?”

“If it comes to it. I don’t like his oily nature.”

“Joseph has made plays to speak with me. I believe, especially now, after seeing this minor extent of Lord Mercy’s power that he’ll target more of your Patrons and those of us who have similar but different Nature.” Jerome said with a soft sigh. Ben nodded and looked at the other two Gods.

“Be safe my friends.” They nodded departing. They were easily surrounded by the large cats that were Mercy’s Animal. One thing was certain, there was going to be a battle for Hope soon. Everyone needed to be ready.

#God of War AU #Far Cry 5 AU #Almost everyone is some sort of God and those that aren't are favored #and can kick ass still

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