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imagine-darksiders · 5 months ago

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Mobsiders, chapter 1.

Timeless Unrest.

So, I'm trying something different here, this is a mafia au in which the Horsemen are mob bosses, and they take an interest in the Reader. This story will be set in the Universe of Darksiders, 2 years post-resurrection.

You are a self-proclaimed reporter, tasking yourself with hunting down a rumour that humans are being sold off-realm as slaves to a certain Demon Prince. At the centre of those rumours is one, particular family who control Haven City, and the Earth at large. You've been found out, and now you're going to have to meet the very beings you've been trying to expose.

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You’ve heard it said that a good journalist will face down threats every day in search of the truth, but a great journalist has already skirted so close to the truth that they’ve been privy to the inside of a burlap sack.

‘If there’s one thing to take out of this,’ you muse, panting for breath inside the coarse, stinking bag slung around your head as you’re dragged forwards down an unseen path, ‘At least I can finally say I’ve made it.’

Jesus… You’d only gone out to pick up your ration of milk for the week…

The passage of time seeps by at a disjointed rhythm when you can’t see. It seems only minutes ago you were trekking through the murky fog from your tiny, jerry-built apartment to the community centre near Fifth to collect your weekly rations. A small slip of card had been clutched protectively against your chest. On it, in little black writing was a short, unimaginative list.

'Bacon.'

'Milk.'

'Cheese.'

'Eggs.'

'Water.'

Two years since the Great Waking has seen Humanity still struggling to cobble their lives back together, and although supplies aren't nearly as sparse as they were in those first few months of chaos and disorder, people are still being careful with what little they have.

You'd been fantasising about how soon you'd see the word 'chocolate' appear on the list when, from out of nowhere, there was a loud squeal of tyres on tarmac, and something came careening to a halt behind you.

Strangely, it took you a moment to register what you were hearing.

When it eventually clicked, the first thought that sprang to mind was, ‘Who the Hell has a working car?’ Your second thought came moments later when you wheeled around just in time to see two, suited men plunge a sack down over your head and heave you bodily into an old, rusty car.

In the struggle you dropped your precious ration card.

The jolt of panic that shot up your spine was so potent, you almost managed to lurch right out of their grasp.

They weren’t expecting you to put up a fight, you suppose.

But how could they not? One of the cruellest aspects of the Great Waking was that humanity didn’t come back as new-born souls who had no recollection of their past lives. Instead, in a sick twist of fate, everyone, yourself included, can still recall how they died.

It sure as Hell made you want to avoid meeting a similar fate ever again.

Which is partly why you’d all but exploded into action when you were grabbed, thrashing your limbs, kicking, lurching sideways, gnashing your teeth to try and catch the burlap between them and tear your way out from the inside if you had to.

With all the ceremony of tossing out a bag of rubbish, you were flung, yowling like a terrified bearcat, and the hands left you for all of a blessed second before your back hit a stiff, leathery surface that punched the wind right out of you.

You can still remember the morbid satisfaction of kicking out and striking something solid that went ‘crunch!’ when it connected with the heel of your shoe.

It wasn’t as satisfying moments later when you were slugged so hard in the cheek, your head snapped back and your vision exploded into colourful speckles of light.

An engine had rumbled to life underneath you as car doors slammed shut, and through the ringing in your ears and swimming head, you caught snippets of conversation, mostly revolving around a broken nose and a call for tissues.

You have no idea how long you were in that car for. All you remember is just how peculiar it was to be in one again. Even more peculiar to realise it had been over a century since you sat on a leather seat with an engine purring against your spine.

You still fought, of course.

Borrowing strength from your fear, you struggled furiously against a weight settled on your legs and a pair of hands that kept your flailing wrists in their vice-like grip.

In hindsight, you regret fighting so hard in the car.

Now that you’re on your feet again, stumbling blindly through an unknowable building with half a chance at running away, you’re exhausted, mouth hoarse and dry from shrieking and limbs that tremble with terror and fatigue.

Your throat aches now, thick with emotions, and your cheek isn’t faring any better either, throbbing like it has its own heartbeat.

Even without the tears clinging to your lashes and muddying your view, the path ahead is still obscured from sight by your scratchy, unconventional headgear.

You’re inside a building. You can deduce that much.

And from the sounds of dress shoes clacking hurriedly on the floor below you, it’s either somewhere that’s been newly built, or a place that had remained miraculously untouched during the stretch of time between Humanity’s extinction and their resurrection.

The surface below you is perfectly and unusually smooth from what you can tell as you’re dragged along by two unknown thugs, neither of whom seem hindered by your stubborn efforts to dig the heels of your plimsolls into the floor, hoping to trip on a notch or bump.

It’s only been two years since the Great Waking, and all the buildings in Haven City have one thing in common that this place doesn’t.

Structurally, every single one of them is as rickety and unstable as a two-legged horse.

Yet this place has no creaky floorboards, no potholes left over from where the ground was blasted apart by a falling meteorite, no dip, sag, scoop or pocket to trip yourself up on and shake your kidnappers loose.

You try to focus on the pounding of footsteps, not your heart, nor the abject terror that tries to sink its teeth into you every time those bruising hands clench all the tighter around your arms and heave you upright again when your legs yield underneath you.

Eyes pinched shut, you force a kerosene-drenched breath in through your mouth and choke it out again, blowing droplets of sweat and tears off your upper lip.

You nearly bite your damn tongue off when ahead of you, something unlatches – ‘a door?’ – and you’re readjusted in the men’s grasp, two hands on each arm, keeping you marching forwards.

The toes of your plimsolls squeak against the hard floor as you’re dragged over a small bump and onto a different surface entirely.

Softer. More giving. The footfalls are quieter…

Carpet, you surmise.

“Ah, finally!”

Your hammering heart seizes up at the sound of a booming, unexpected voice that filters in through the fibrous gaps in your burlap prison. You’d almost grown used to the grunts and curses of the men hauling you along, it’s odd to hear actual words for a change.

“Boss,” one of the men at your side speaks up, his clear, nasally tone confirming he isn’t the one you’d kicked in the face, “Got ‘er right here, Boss! Just like you said.”

The breath hitches in your chest and you wrack your brains to place the first voice as it speaks again.

“Oh for- C’mon, guys. The sack? Really?” a distinctly male voice complains.

Your ears catch the sound of metal clinking, heavy footsteps on the carpet as their wearer draws closer to you… He sounds big, weighty, far more so than either of the two who lugged you in here.

‘Shit…’ you think, breathing hard. And when nothing more helpful springs to mind…‘Fuck!’

Stealing an iota of adrenaline from somewhere deep inside your guts, you start to struggle in earnest again, lips stuffed together to stop yourself from letting out any pitiable whimpers of distress. You have an awful, awful suspicion about whose turf you’re on, and it has everything to do with the little, red notebook currently locked in the top drawer of your bedside table.

“Sorry, Boss,” the nasally man to your left responds, shifting on his feet, “Gave us a little more trouble than we was expectin’. Look what she did to poor Dimitri.”

There’s a pause, in which you assume he must finally see the extent of your efforts to escape the car.

“Yeah,” the stranger eventually says, “I noticed that… S’it bad?”

The man to your right – Dimitri, you infer – huffs out an acidic hiss through his teeth and starts to dig blunted fingernails into your sleeve, upping the pressure until you wince beneath the sack.

“Broke my fucken’ nose,” he sneers in a voice that’s thick and wet, as if he’s bunged up with a bad cold, “F’she knocked any teeth out, this little bitch’d be-“

“-HEY.”

It’s alarming how one simple word can crack across the room like a bolt of lightning, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck and causing Dimitri to choke on his tongue in his haste to fall silent. Instinctively, you flinch away from the shout, as far as the hands will allow, though you can’t help but notice that the men on either side of you do the same thing, each taking a quick, aborted step back before they seem to remember themselves and stop in their tracks.

Nobody says a word. You don’t because you’re loathe to draw that kind of wrath down on your own head, and the men don’t for much the same reason.

Another heavy boot falls to the carpet with a dull, metallic ‘clunk,’ far closer to you than it was before, and when its wearer draws in a breath, you can hear the creak and stretch of leather as it expands to compensate a prodigious chest.

… He’s standing directly in front of you…

“… I catch you usin’ that kind of language about this lady again,” the stranger growls, his once casual tone now deep and dark as a mineshaft, likely just as dangerous, “And I might just forget that you humans aren’t bulletproof.”

‘Humans…? Oh, God…’ Gulping audibly, you try to keep your breaths shallow and quiet; a difficult feat when the air around you is disturbed by the terribly familiar ‘click’ of a gun’s hammer locking into position.

From within the muffled pocket of your hood, the sound is almost deafening.

Throat closed around several, trapped sobs, you hold your breath and clench your eyes shut, expecting that at any moment, you’re going to hear a man die.

But then…

“Understood…” Dimitri says, hesitating for a second before he quickly adds, “Sir.”

How he managed to speak without his voice quaking, you’ll never know.

With bated breath, you wait for his Boss’s verdict.

When it comes, the stranger’s voice bounces back to its jocular lilt in a turnaround violent enough to leave you with whiplash.

“Good!” he announces promptly, “Can’t have her thinkin’ we’re a bunch of monsters.”

His tone shifts again as he aims it at you.

“Now then...”

Gentle, amicable, friendliness wrapped in a cloak of deception. You know how loud his voice can be, so this unexpected softness means nothing to you.

“Let’s get you outta there, n’ see that pretty face up close…”

Oh, if only you could will yourself to dematerialise and sink through the floorboards like you’ve seen so many demons do on a whim.

Finding your voice, you shake your head, eyes wild behind the sack as they flit from side to side. “Please,” you croak, fruitlessly trying to peel your arms away from the hands rooting you to the spot, “I-I haven’t seen your face, I don’t know who you are, just-!”

Enormous, unnaturally cool fingers brush against the bottom of the sack, wriggling under the twine and tugging the knot loose. In an instant, you reel backwards, throwing your head as far away from the touch as you can, chest heaving hysterically when the man simply follows your motions.

“Just let me go home!” you sob, realising that maybe you aren’t cut out for this, after all.

A reporter. You could spit at the idea now. What the Hell were you thinking? You could have taken up with the group who left to build farmlands outside the city. You could be relaxing on a maker-built porch right now after a hard day of planting those precious seeds an angel found in Svalbard.

You could have picked up a hammer and set to work patching the holes in a shelter's roof, or jumped in a wagon that trundles around the city, distributing supplies and medical aid.

There are no jobs anymore. People are too busy focusing on the rebuilding effort, trying to restore an entire world and its civilisation to something functional once again. Nearly everyone wants to help, in their own way.

And what did you decide to do, to help? You thought it would be a grand idea to pick up a pen and a notebook and chase down information, scribbling out newsletters from the rickety desk in your apartment and distributing them around the city by hand.

And that foolish decision has led you here, to your doom. You'd grown too cocky, thought nobody would pay attention to one, little human trying to track down the sources of rumours that people are being sold off-world as slaves.

A mellow chuckle rolls from a throat high above your head and resonates inside your ribcage. “Easy, sweetheart,” the stranger coos, gripping the sack and raising it carefully up over your face, adjusting easily to the way you twist your neck from side to side, “You’re all right.”

When the burlap finally pulls free of your eyes, you can’t keep yourself from squinting against the sudden intrusion of light, blinking rapidly to clear your vision.

“There you are,” the voice says, quiet with barely contained wonder.

Keeping your head locked straight ahead of you, you finally manage to peel your eyelids apart and free the tears that were trapped behind them. Little tracks roll down the curves of your cheeks and gather on your chin as the body in front of you comes into focus.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck. And shit.

You’ve been flying too close to the sun, haven’t you, Icarus? Now you’re going to die, and what came of it? What was it all for? Exposing a corrupt family to the world. A world who could do nothing to fight back even if you armed them with knowledge?

There’s nowhere you can look that isn’t absolutely covered by armour. You can't even see the room beyond it.

A vast torso stretches across your field of view, protected entirely by segments of silver armour. Each interlocking part connects with another seamlessly to fit over the swollen muscles of a body built solely for destruction.

Every inch of it is marred with a constellation of scratches, welts, and age-old scorch marks tarnishing the silver black in places, and from waist to chest span three, distinct gouges that have torn through the armour entirely, leaving thin lines through the metal and giving you an uninterrupted glimpse of black, skin-tight leather beneath.

Something big had left those marks, and still he'd come out the victor.

Everything your bulging eyes take in attests to a life lived in battle, and a survivor of all that have made an attempt on his life.

You don’t want to look up. You’ve heard a rumour that to meet his eyes is akin to slapping a hungry bear on its snout. Your eyes can’t see high enough to glimpse the mask you suspect is tilted down at you anyway.

You know what you’ll see if you do. You know the man standing in front of you, perhaps not personally, perhaps more than you should, perhaps not at all. His name is scribbled on almost every page in your notebook.

Gritting your teeth, you swallow thickly and instead, allow your gaze to creep lower, away from the eyes burning a hole into the top of your head.

You regret looking down almost immediately when your stare lands on the butt of an enormous, silver revolver jutting from a holster strapped to his hips, so large that it would make any ordinary man who wields it look like a toddler trying to play with a cannon.

An audible whimper falls through your teeth as you flick your gaze sideways and see the second gun you already knew was there.

You swear you can feel several pints of blood drain from your face.

These guns are about as infamous as their wielder. And you’re standing within spitting distance of all three.

“O-oh, shit,” you stutter through buzzing teeth. And really, what else is there to say?

You’re in the den of one of the most dangerous beings in the Universe. One of four, in fact.

You’ve heard so many names accredited to him.

Endless Spirit of Timeless Unrest is your personal favourite for nothing else but the sheer pageantry of it.

He’s a killer, a monster, spreading desolation and terror everywhere he goes…

Worse still, before the End War and Earth’s downfall, you and everyone else assumed he was nothing more than a fairy-tale written into the pages of an old, allegorical book.

After all, a Horseman of the Apocalypse? It was always such an outlandish idea.

Until it wasn’t. Until he wasn’t.

“Hah…”

You give a start at the soft chuckle rumbling above your head.

“Not the reaction I was hopin’ for, but beggars can’t be choosers…”

You try to keep your tear-blurred vision on the armoured torso in front of you, but the decision to of inaction is stolen from you seconds later when a gargantuan, metal gauntlet rises up in front of your face.

Startling, you buck against the goons pinning you in place as he extends a finger and slips it underneath your chin.

You cram your lips together, fighting to stop that impossibly strong hand from tilting your head back.

Eyes rolling with fright, your face crumples and you let out a wheezing sob that catches in your throat as your gaze is forced up past a monstrous, armoured chest, then over a thick neck until finally, when you can hardly muster up the courage to draw in a rattling breath… there he is, staring down at you with eyes that exude all the qualities of a predator. Bright and yellow like melted gold, illuminating the silver helm that conceals every other feature from view.

Thick spikes of hair jut from the back of it, and you're reminded more of sharp, ebony horns belonging to that of a demon, rather than anything human.

Above you looms the man who holds Haven City and all the world in the palm of his unforgiving hand.

Of their own accord, your quivering lips peel apart and release his name into the air like a curse, uttered in terrified reverence.

“Strife.”

#darksiders #mobsiders #mafia au #Mob boss Strife #Reporter Reader #fear #Kidnapping #whump #World-building

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doggoboigaugau · 1 year ago

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Omegas' Dystopia

This story is based on this post.

Pairing: Alpha!Male Reader x Omega!Ghost / Submissive top!Male reader x Dominant bottom!Ghost

Tag: A/B/O, world-building, dystopia, historical fiction

Summary: Alphas are the victims of society's hierarchy. Ghost finds the medic of his team in a building and in heat.

Word count: 2129 words

Distant noises of men screaming and shouting were piercing through your brain while continuous explosions almost deafened your ears. You tried to urge your brain to work on recalling what the hell was going on at this very moment, but it was inundated with too many noises for analyzing to make room for another matter. Helplessly, you turned to your body, internally screaming for it to function as you found yourself unable to open your eyes, move your arms, or open your mouth. On top of that, you can feel your whole body burning uncomfortably as if you’re put on a cross and burnt alive like the Omega ‘witches’ in medieval times, and the burn feels the worst in your stomach.

Your heat arrives. Worst, it arrives in the middle of a gruesome battle, and you are the only medic alive on your team.

“Fuck.” You mumble. It won’t be too bad if you have your emergency kit containing scent suppressants with you like always, but during the ambush earlier, you dropped it while running for your life. If your enemy finds that kit, they’ll know there is an Alpha somewhere on this battlefield.

That won’t be of the gravest concern for you right now. Because you are in heat, your scent will soon flood this whole compound, and any Omegas that can sense it will blow this place up and search every corner to find you. A weak, lonely, delicious, and especially rare Alpha. It’s scary to even think about what will happen when they find you. Given that only 2,9% of the population now are Alphas, and most Omegas are likely to live their lives without experiencing Alpha scents and intercourse with Alphas until their very death, once you are found, you’ll never be found again. You’ll be kept in a cage, whether it is a room in a military base, a luxurious mansion, or a literal cage, and your only job from then on is to be a pretty little thing for the Omegas to cherish and sexualize.

“I have to think of something…” You mumble to yourself again. But what thing? Without scent suppressants, the Omegas will soon locate you and ‘eat you alive’.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots echoes on the first floor of the building whose second floor you’re hiding in. Who is this? You ask yourself. Are they on your side or on the enemy’s side? Either way, if you don’t think of an escape plan right now, your life as a free individual will end abruptly.

You look outside the window of the room, looking down at the ground below.

“Too high…” Even if you escape from this building, your legs probably won’t be good enough to run from potential predators later.

Much to your horror, you can no longer hear any sound anymore. The sound of the heavy boots just earlier appears to vanish into thin air, since now the only noises your fuzzy head under the influence of the heat can make out of are from gun fires, explosions, and screaming. Where does that person go? The inability to locate the potential enemy and the fear of losing freedom forever, subjected to hungry men’s wishes, makes the burning in your brain and stomach worsens, scared of your own active imagination.

“Doc?”

You jump. It’s a familiar voice, belonging to the person whom even in the middle of a crowd you can always recognize.

“L.t…” You mutter, turning your head back to what is supposed to be the door of this room in this dilapidated building. Ghost is standing there. His expression is hard to tell as always because of his skull mask, but you can easily guess his eyes are widened in surprise.

“You- you are an Alpha???” The massive man exclaims. It’s a piece of information that renders even the most unimpressionable man like Ghost speechless.

*****

Since the first record of humanity on Earth, there have been three genders: Alpha, Beta, and Omega. At the beginning of mankind, according to prehistoric parietal art, drawings on vessels, bowls, or potteries, and earliest writings, Alphas were described as the dominant individuals of the communities, leaders and decision makers of all trades, and the biggest contributors to growth and advancement in every field of the early societies. Betas and Omegas were by no means members of no use, but their roles were rather more passive and behind the scene, and when outright wars threatened, it was the Alphas that were powerful enough to withstand successive tortuous days of fighting and sustaining horrendous injuries. Portraits of Alphas were often men of tall and muscular build and in powerful poses, such as riding on horses with weapons in hands, or standing before a throne and overlooking a kingdom. Archaeological evidence suggested that during the early time, Alphas, Betas, and Omegas lived in harmony and each gender had specific roles to play in society, as Alphas–the gender bestowed with physical advantages–were in charge of diplomatic activities which also included wars; Omegas, with their slender frames, delicate hands, and exceptional reproductive abilities, were creators of the majority of arts, as well as the housekeepers responsible for educating offspring; Betas, who seemed to be the most “ordinary” of all since they were without any exceptional traits, would do anything necessary that Alphas and Omegas didn’t have the time for to keep the society function properly. In short, all genders were important parts of the early society, each represented a strong link in the chain of the prehistoric generations.

Regarding attraction and reproductive activities, humanity functioned mainly based on scent. Alphas and Omegas, as the most sexually active ones, had very strong and unique scents, and as a result, their scent glands which were located on the back of their neck were more prominent. Betas’ scents were much weaker, so the glands on their necks were not as noticeable. Another notable characteristic of Alphas and Omegas was heat circles. This varied across individuals, but on average, every three weeks or a month, they would experience heat, the time during which their reproductive capacities were greatest, and contrary to popular early belief, both Alphas and Omegas needed gentle care and constant scent reassurance from their mates. In order to mark someone as their “mate”, Alphas or Omegas would bite the scent gland on the back of the mate’s neck and inject their own scents into the individual through it, although historians agreed that Alphas were often the ones to do this kind of gestures due to their more dominant role in the early society.

However, the harmonious relationships among these three genders started to show signs of deterioration when mankind began expeditions to other territories in search of safe trading routes, both on land and at sea, to boost their economy. As trading exploded on various continents, bestowing great wealth and luxury to men, the consumers’ needs also brought about the emergence of new commodities. Omegas were one of those. Slavery became immensely profitable, and Omegas were abducted, captured, and forced to leave their homes. Since then, the value of Omegas was reduced to that of property that Alphas could own.

That part of the dark history was not taught in schools to children nowadays. The details of that time are only known to the historians, and are protected by the governments, which are now mainly run by Omegas. In fact, more than 90% of the people in power now are Omegas.

What brought about such a chance? The Omegas never accepted their place as slaves. After several generations of slavery, which could amount to some centuries, Omegas had become stronger, larger, and more muscular in build. They secretly connected to each other from all countries, and with the help of many progressive Alphas who opposed slavery, organized revolts against the governments. Victory ensued, and a society of equality was slowly being built again. The progressive people hoped to rebuild the balance of the old societies, but the majority of Omegas in power, who feared that history could repeat itself, had another plan. They slaughtered Alphas in secret, even the ones that used to help them regain their freedom. And when the brutality meted out to the Alpha population could no longer go unnoticed, they continued their quest of complete decimation despite opposition and warnings from the forward-thinking.

Only until there was no trace of the Alphas did these men stop their barbarity. But then they realized why the so-called forward-thinking were so scared of a future without any Alphas.

The heat circles.

Both Alphas and Omegas needed care and reassurance from their mates during these times, and an Omega without the scent of an Alpha, just like an Alpha without that of an Omega, would turn into a berserk monster blinded by the instinctive and primal needs. Thousands of men were turned into such a state every month, as the governments were now desperate to find any Alphas that had been lucky enough to hide from their blade, as well as fund projects that could produce remedies to this instinctive desire. Some Alphas were found, hidden away by their Omega and Beta relatives who truly cared for their wellbeing, but these poor boys were vulnerable and subjected to serious health problems, and even death, as they had to care for too many men.

It took the Omegas various decades and millions of deaths of men who craved Alpha scent but could never have it to produce types of suppressants strong enough to prevent further painful deaths. Still, the Alpha scents are what men have always sought after, and since below 3% of the world population now are Alphas, only the wealthiest, most successful men can lay their hands on an Alpha.

Alphas are now treated like Omegas in the old societies, the pretty little things that offer men pleasure and help to show off their status, but obviously, the Omegas are not very proud of what they have done to reach this stage.

*****

“I’ve always thought you’re a Beta…” Ghost says, his voice surprisingly so much softer than usual as he looks at the trembling Alpha in the corner of the room.

“It was…thanks to the scent suppressants…” You stutter.

“Then you’ve hid it well, haven’t you?” The man with the skull mask asks. You hiccup helplessly as you can feel Ghost radiating his strong scent which quickly wraps around your burning body like a warm blanket.

Scotch. His scent smells like Scotch. It’s funny enough because it’s also the man’s favorite drink.

“What are you doing…?” You ask, curling up into a ball in the corner, looking like a weak, newborn wolf pup who has lost his pack, alone and vulnerable in the middle of the vicious wild.

“Helping you to hide your scent, idiot.” The man chuckles, which is even more strange. He kneels down beside you, his strong hands grabs your arm, forcing you to open up before him.

Your self-defense mechanism kicks in as you try to struggle against this unrivaled Omega, “Let me go! What do you want?”

“Shhh…” Ghost whispers to your ear. His eyes narrow as he loosens the collar of your white coat, revealing your swelling, reddened scent gland. The poor little thing is twitching constantly, which is a clear sign of the individual being in heat and desperately needing suppressants or their mates’ care and scent reassurance.

“Let me mark you.”

“What???” You exclaim, unable to believe in your own ears what the man just says.

“I said, let me mark you.” Ghost patiently repeats, “As in I’ll bite your scent gland and inject my scent into you.”

“What??? No way!!” You protest and struggle again.

Ghost easily suppressed your weak attempt to get away with his strong hands and arms, “This is your only chance to get out of here safely, Doc. If I don’t mark you, your scent will reveal to every man here on this battlefield that you’re the rare Alpha that they’re supposed to have no opportunity to meet during their entire lifetime. You can imagine what happens after that, right? To them, you’re the delicious little prey that they wish to have at least a bite on. But, if you let me mark you, my scent will act like the natural suppressants, and you can go back to the base without fear of being found out and then take care of your heat later. What do you say, huh? Little Alpha?”

Seeing that you’re still indecisive, Ghost lowers his head to your neck again, “Or if you like, I can help you to take care of your heat as well…”

“I don’t need your help with my heat!!” You exclaim, then try to stay calm despite your furiously blushing face, “F-fine…Mark me…”

To be continued...

New series lmao...Also my surgery was delayed :) There will be smut in this one, but rather with a darker theme because this is a dystopian society after all lmao 👍👍👍

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year ago

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Something that you might have discussed that I just missed for AEIWAM - if Hell is basically Soul Rehab for souls that aren't Contributing Properly, then why does having high spiritual energy mean that you're more likely to go to Hell? Are they basically bleeding off excess energy from those souls, or?

Yes and no?

1. Hell is rehab for Souls that would damage the cycle of reincarnation*specifically*. People only go to hell for two* reasons: they do a lot of harm to others (aka Bad Karma), or when reincarnating them would throw the balance between worlds off (High power)

Basically, there needs to be... Approximately the same amount of spiritual energy in the living world, spirit world and Hell. So when an exceptionally powerful spirit like say, a Captain, dies and moves onto the next plane, there sort of needs to be 'room' for the incoming powerful soul. There usually isn't, and also the Life Machine that generates reality needs to eat, so Hell solves both problems by having really powerful souls come to hell and vent power for a while until they are only about as strong as a regular soul, and then send them back to the living world.

2. So, yes, the more powerful a soul, the more likely they are to go to Hell, no matter how they behave in the living or spirit world.

For people on the level of Gotei-13 captains, it's pretty much guaranteed, unless they manage to do something bizarre like drain all of their spiritual energy into a magical barrier or leave it stored in the Family Cursed Artifact (looking at you, Tsunyashiro clan). Lieutenants stand an estimated 50/50 chance (unless they learn Bankai in which case, again, guaranteed), and all seated officers are at some increased risk.

3. How they behave while alive still makes a difference though.

See, Hell in AEIWAM isn't *necessarily" The Bad Place. Souls cause harm to other souls for TONS of reasons that aren't evil: mental illness, getting caught in terrible circumstances, genuinely trying to make the world a better place and severely fucking up, and sometimes it's just bad luck. Hell isn't there to punish, it's there to figure out what went wrong that this soul hurt so many people, and try to fix it.

Sometimes that's things like "magically removing the ego and putting a different sized one in", sometimes it's "cognitive behavioral therapy" sometimes it's "you're not a bad person but you did fuck up so you gotta do a really boring and gross task that helps restore the ambient vibes of the universe for 400 years to balance out the damage" sometimes it's "actually, we can trust you to do good deeds, here's a visa to the living world to dole out minor miracles to anyone who needs it".

In AEIWAM, the only difference between a devil and an angel is that the angel does field work and the devil does back office.

So sure, all the captains are going to Hell at some point. But if they did their best while alive, they more or less get to skip rehab and have Free Time until they're weak enough to leave. It fun, actually! Captains and the like get assigned a Demonic Personal Assistant and told to go have fun, don't break anything, and are turned lose to go adventuring, get married, take up farming and/or stamp collecting or whatever they desire.

*note from above: there is a third "legitimate" way to enter Hell: Superlative Karma.

It's RARE, but once in a while a soul so vastly improves life for everyone else they end up with such extremely good karma that they run the risk of unbalancing the planes just by sheer vibes clash. Superlatives are plucked out of the cycle of reincarnation by Hell to help the spend some of that karma having a very literal HELL OF A GOOD TIME.

4. And so, all the planes of the wheel lived in harmony, UNTIL THE BOURGEOISIE ATTACKED.

Problem is, about... 1500ish years ago, a bunch of the noble houses got together, tricked The Monk Who Speaks The Name into letting them into the house of the guy that maintains The Life Machine, they very literally butchered The Divine Tech Support, and used parts of his body to jam up the wheel of life, because they thought they could be God better than God.

Dumbasses.

One of the things they jammed was the Exit from Hell, so now only a few people can leave at a time and the backup is threatening to unbalance the entire wheel now, so Hell is also being VERY VERY CAREFUL to not let any of the Captains die until they've gotten enough souls out that there is effectively 'room' for the Captain.

So yes. Higher spiritual power means a soul is guaranteed to go to Hell, at least for a while-but it also means they won't be going there for a long, LONG time.

#aeiwam #an elephant is warm and mushy #bleach #bleach fanfiction #hell mention #world-building

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exobiotica · 2 years ago

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Brand new website!

Check out Exobiotica.com for all your weird alien needs. Get prints, read new content, and go in-depth into the project. Enjoy!

#alien #aliens #creature #scifi #creature creator #science #art #artist #planet #space #web design #built from scratch #illustration #world-building #nature #artwork #speculative biology #Speculative Evolution

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inky-thoughts · 2 years ago

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Heirs to the Crown costume worldbuilding notes pt. 1

thought I could do a compilation with the stuff that's otherwise just rotting away in my brain

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oh-shtars · 7 months ago

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The Astral Realm ✨

(aka infodumping RFTS!AU stuff for fun)

I remembered saying at one point that I’ll do a post just spatting out my ideas for the universe that Wishing Stars reside in and well, here’s that post!

First and foremost, I want to clarify that since the stars live in a completely different universe/reality, the terminology used here is not going to be completely accurate to space in real-life. This is really just my imagination running wild. 😅

Without further ado, here’s stuff under the cut ⬇️

The Realm:

I was inspired a bit by the “In Between Realm” that was featured in The Owl House. (LOVE that show btw 💖). And I remembered Disney attempted to make ‘Wish’ the starting point in a Disney interconnected universe with Asha being the first Fairy Godmother and all those references. And stuff-

Sooo, I kind of played with those two ideas. :))

The Owl House described the “In Between Realm” as the ‘connection of worlds’ or the ‘cosmic glue in between realms.’ Somewhere where its inhabitants can look through places of different realms. So my head clicked and I thought, what if the Astral Realm is like the “In-between Realm?”

The Astral Realm is the cosmic space found in between multiple different Disney universes. After all, presumably everyone looks up to the same sky and see the same stars, right? Let me explain it a little more clearly.

In TOH, each cube is a way to look into one realm. Papa Titan mentioned that they can look into more places than just the Human and Demon realm. In the RFTS!AU, it’s like that but at a much bigger scale.

I was thinking that instead of small cubes, it’s galaxies and they’re like the size of islands scattered across the black ocean space of the Astral realm. Each galaxy is a seperate Disney universe. (One for Snow White. One for Tangled, etc.)

The stars can fly or swim in between these islands and can land to rest on any of them if they’d like. But they’ll always have a sense of where their home island/galaxy is. But mostly, I think they’ll just be zooming around and floating around in the vast space, playing with dust clouds and space rocks.

Btw, Wishing Stars can move around freely a lot in the Astral Realm to their heart’s content. But humans from their realm will still see them as unmoving regardless. After all, they’re in seperate realities.

In a way, the Disneyverse is sort of interconnected but also not really?? They’re still separated by this ‘cosmic glue’ in between them but they’re pretty close by in a sense. Wishing stars reside within this “cosmic glue” and they’re the very same stars that listen to people’s wishes no matter what Disney universe they’re in.

………

Within One Galaxy:

As I’ve mentioned, one galaxy is like one island surrounded by the ocean of space. (An island that looks like the above pic ⬆️) And one island is a seperate Disney universe. Stars could choose to land on an island and just really chill there or whatever.

I think that the outsides around it when zooming into what it looks like within, is just a forest similar to what Disney likes to set most of its stories in. (Ex: Bambi, Sleeping Beauty, Robin Hood.) In contrast to the mortal realms, I like to think the Astral realm is leaning more onto a nature-themed home instead of built villages and castles that humans have. Take these images for example but make it more nebula-ish and sparkly.

There’s forests, caves, “Water” bodies and all that on each island. But in the very middle of each ‘galaxy’ is a more special place:

………

The Wishing Meadow:

The place is exactly as it sounds. In the very middle of each island is a lake(?) where most rivers and creeks often originate from. But all ‘water’ bodies are the stars’ way of looking down at the living mortals that belong in this specific island’s universe.

Only every time the sky is clear at night does the water turn transparent, and they can people-watch.

But surrounding the main lake in the middle, is the “Wishing Meadow” where all wishes made from the heart go. Simpler ones grow into flowers that litter around the area. Glowing brightly and in different sizes depending on what kind of wish it is. The more complex ones grow into fruit among the leaves of the few trees in the meadow.

(My sister commented on the meadow sounding like the “Echo Flowers” from Undertale, and honestly? That’s pretty sick-)

Wishing stars can either listen to the music emitted by the flowers that only they can hear. (Because I like to think each wish has a unique melody. Like “How Far I’ll Go” is more determined with a stronger beat, compared to “Part of Your World” is softer because they each have different emotions.).

OR the stars can choose to harness a wish from a flower and use magic to guide their wishmaker from the sky through some magic intervention. (What powers their ability to magically assist is passion derived from the wish itself.)

Complex Wishes as fruit from the trees are only allowed to be picked by more mature stars since they have more experience. (These are also the only kind that will allow a star to travel down to the mortal realm if needed.)

Doodles: 🎨

I’ve made some of my own art as a way to brainstorm this concept and the ideas I’ve mentioned above.

I spent way too much time thinking about something that won’t be a major part in my story anyway. Lol. Oh well, this was fun either way.

So yeah, basically, this is Sueño’s home realm everyone!! If you want to ask anything about this, feel free to do so. I’m just rambling again and still sort of developing stuff anyway.

#reach for the stars au #rfts au #wish au #wish rewrite #The Astral Realm #au dump #wishing star lore(?)#I probably suck at explaining things here #it sounds a lot more clearer in my head. oof #world-building

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jackkilligrew · 1 month ago

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The ungainly monitors were hardly taken seriously, and undergraduates had been known to kidnap them, reprogram them, and have them performing tricks at parties. Curious about Blackspire’s mysteries? Check out my full world-building journey on my blog!

#exploreblackspire #microfiction #short stories #stories #world-building #steampunk #original writing #fiction #victorian #sci fi #storyboarding #robots #fictional world #fantasy writing #writing community #writers on tumblr

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ladyof1000masks · 5 months ago

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So about the Fable reboot...

People (Fable fans) are being really fucking shitty to me because I have an unpopular opinion. I'm not trying to be a bitch, I mean no disrespect to the devs of the reboot, I fully plan on giving the game a chance, etc. If I don't get my way I'm not going to attack or harass the developers like the absolute fucking toilet sponges on Youtube attacked and harassed the trans-fem environmental artist for being the reason the PC is "ugly."

All of this because I believe that Fable isn't Fable without the world-building (historical characters and history) established in Fable The Lost Chapters and expanded on by "Tales of Albion" should be included in the reboot. I've clarified what I mean numerous times and somehow they're still misconstruing/twisting my words. I don't want or expect the base world-building to be 1:1, I fully expect and hope that they will evolve the source material.

All I want is the Old Kingdom, the Void, William Black, the Court mostly Jack of Blades to exist in the reboot. If Playground can't include it at the bare minimum then they should have made their own IP instead of skinning Fable's corpse and wearing it.

I see everyone saying Fable isn't Fable without "the moral choices," "British Humor, life-sim mechanics, good/evil morphing, etc" but they never include world-building.

A fantasy world heavily depends on its lore (history and historical characters), usually from the source material it's based off, to have a distinct identity. I play the Elder Scrolls series, not only for the features, but for the story, characters and lore which allows me to invest and immerse myself in a unique living world I can't get anywhere else. No other fantasy world is the same.

It's the same for Fable. Even if it has all the gameplay and humor of the originals, without the basic history of William Black, the Old Kingdom, the Court, and the void, it will never be Fable. Fable is its humor, its gameplay, its features, its lore/history and its historical characters. You can't extract one of these and still call it Fable which is why it baffles me as to why so few people care about the base lore. You say you want a Fable game, but you're okay with history, historical characters, and world-building being completely gutted?

That IS the source material. Do you mean to tell me the Fable reboot is still Fable without Fable? That's like saying a bologna sandwich is still a sandwich without bread.

I expect Fable to be everything and have everything (to a certain point) from the originals but improved and evolved. As a writer, why the fuck would you wipe out pre-existing world-building and basic history to start completely anew? Firstly, you're creating a lot more work for yourself as well as increasing development time and costs.

Finally, why wouldn't you evolve/improve the base world construct and adapt what already exists to make it yours? The base material has so much untapped potential that was never realized or properly explored. The Court and even Jack of Blades by himself were never utilized satisfactorily. Jack needed more development.

Motherfucker was the big bad (twice) and not only was he barely in the game, there was almost zero setup until near the tail end. "Surprise, bitch! It was me all along! Suck the end of my sword." There is SO much. I don't expect everything to happen exactly the same or characters not to be altered. To be clear, I don't expect any lore after TLC's base history and historical characters. So I don't expect the story of Fable 1-3 (fuck Fable the Journey) to be reflected in the reboot.

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jomiddlemarch · 11 months ago

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While You Were Sleeping

Hermione took a deep breath. The breeze that came through the open windows smelled of both night-blooming jasmine and cherry Bakewell tarts, at least to her, though she wasn’t about to ask his opinion. Before she glanced across the room again, she remembered standing in the office at the Ministry with the Head of International and Interspecies Diplomacy, the way her robes had just grazed the ground because the Hemming charm was finally working properly, the glow she’d felt when Godiva Canon-Crisparkle had announced Hermione had been specially requested for the assignment and that Chief Canon-Crisparkle expected that once again, Hermione would live up to her informal title as Brightest Witch of Her Age (a title Hermione rather loathed, but had to put up with as otherwise she seemed to be either sneeringly dismissive or falsely and sickeningly humble) and conduct herself in such a way as to bring further honor and glory to the Ministry and also lock down the trading rights, embassy site, and the official and magically notarized alliance with the Eguzkiko. Hermione had nodded smartly, acquiesced as graciously as she could when told she would be accompanied by a member of the Ministry legal department, and screamed silently when she was told who it would be.

Draco Malfoy.

Correction: Draco Black Malfoy, Esq.

(Part of the silent scream was triggered by the fact of his training and employment in Legal, when she’d pegged him as Potions or an Architect, either of which she could have accepted better given his past and family background and his decision shortly after his father was sent to Azkaban to feature his mother’s family name as the heir to the House of Black. This, however, was not new information, only data she had been struggling to accept for the past fifteen years.)

(Ginny and Padma had a theory to account for the remainder of the silent scream, but it was one Hermione categorically refused to entertain, even when Luna asked if she would entertain it non-categorically and how exactly would that be different? There was a second silent scream at the combination of frustration of only getting challenged by Ravenclaws at this late date in her life when years to dealing with Harry, Ron, and occasionally stubborn Neville had left her ill-equipped for actual debate.)

Still, the key bit was that she’d been able to hold her tongue and appear to keep her temper and channeled the string of obscenities and full body tantruming she wanted to indulge in into preparing most thoroughly for the mission, though the relative lack of information on Euskara left some holes which Hermione had to hope were not gaping. She altered her trusted blue beaded bag to appear as a slim chocolate leather portfolio and agreed to pack a swimsuit and some actual cotton nighties rather than relying on Transfiguration, since her Transfigured clothes were never cut quite as well as she liked, rather what Ginny flat-out described as dowdy enough for that cow Umbridge.

She spent a week brushing up on language charms, stocked up on coconut oil conditioner at Boots, and accepted the bottle of Glenmorangie that Minerva pressed on her during their monthly tea. She’d planned to use it as a guest-gift it that suited the mores of the Eguzkiko but she found herself reconsidering, given the its utility in becoming black-out drunk.

She looked across the suite at the wide bed with its plump embroidered pillows, its billowing linen curtains tied to each post, the nosegay of blossoms overflowing a small vase on the bedside table.

The singular bed.

She breathed in slowly through her nose, counted to five.

There was only one bed.

“There’s only one bed,” she announced, sounding half-strangled to herself. Draco Black Malfoy, Esq. had an impassive expression, so she couldn’t tell if she sounded half-strangled to him or whether he didn’t care or whether he was losing his aristocratic shite in the most stiff upper lip Pureblood manner.

“Yes,” he replied. “Only one. They must have made some assumptions about us—"

“Why?” she said. “Why can’t you simply Transfigure a second bed? It doesn’t have to be another one like that, a cot would do—”

“Didn’t you read the brief, Madam Granger?” he asked. He used her formal title, which was a vast improvement over both Mudblood and you, which were the only other ways she could recall hearing him address her. He still sounded entirely superior.

“I did but do go on,” she said. “I can tell you’re simply dying to.”

“It would be the height of bad manners to Transfigure anything in this suite. Everything here has been specially chosen and conveys the regard of the Eguzkiko. Furthermore, they have a prohibition on using magic in the bedchamber. And finally, I don’t think you want to begin your talks by telling them they have made a grave error about the nature of our relationship. It was indicated that anything construed as a significant loss of face would very likely not be surmountable,” he explained. He smiled and it wasn’t as snide as it could have been. It wasn’t a smirk. She knew his smirks of old. This was something else, an expression she couldn’t say she’d seen before on an adult man, let alone Draco Black Malfoy. “You are the diplomat here, not I.”

“Yes, well, that’s obvious,” she huffed.

“Indeed?” he said, more civilly than she would have expected.

“You had to rub it in, about the brief and the rest of it,” Hermione said, glossing over his assessment that the Eguzkiko saw them as bedfellows, married or otherwise engaged to each other. “A diplomat isn’t trying to take every chance they can to assert their dominance and make the other person embarrassed. For the record, I don’t feel embarrassed, just annoyed.”

“I wasn’t—that is, I didn’t intend to,” he said. His cheeks were faintly pink. He was…flustered? Irritated? Apologetic?

“Forget it,” she interrupted. “What we really need to do is decide what we’re going to do about that,” she pointed to the bed.

“You may take the side closer to the bath,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow when her mouth dropped open. “Did you think I was going to offer to sleep on the floor for the next month and a half?”

“A gentleman would,” she said. Might. And then she would have waved her hand and said it didn’t matter, they were both adults and colleagues and would have had the upper hand (previously waved) and the moral high ground and he would be the one feeling…wobbly. The rosiness in his cheeks had disappeared as if it had never been present and she’d hallucinated it. She would have preferred hallucinating the single bed.

“But Madam Granger, I am a Wizard and a barrister. Neither qualifies me as a gentleman,” he replied, smiling again, a little wry, amused. Attractive, if she could forget he was Draco Sodding Black Bloody Malfoy, Esquire Thorn In Her Side.

“Don’t hog the blankets,” she said, walking around to what was now her side of the bed. It was nicer to be close to the bath and it put him nearer to the door, which was the defensive position in the room. Much good that would do them, as they couldn’t use their wands or even do wandless magic and also, they were being welcomed as a diplomatic party and shouldn’t have to anticipate intruders or rogue Death Eater sympathizers. She set her portfolio down. Ordinarily, she would unpack, hang up some robes, arrange her shoes in a row in the wardrobe, but that seemed too personal with Draco standing there watching her.

“Of course not,” he said. “I hope you don’t snore, as I won’t be able to cast Quietus or Septum Stabilis—”

“I don’t,” she snapped.

“Weasley would have complained, I gather,” Draco said. It was clear he relished a chance to disparage Ron, even at a slight remove.

“He wouldn’t dare. He spent most of that time on the run on the run from Harry and me,” Hermione said. Draco’s brow furrowed in a more appealing confusion. “When we were hunting Horcruxes, Ron scarpered off. Harry never said I made any noise at night, said he sometimes checked on me to make sure I was alive. Lavender and Parvati never mentioned anything when we shared a room at Hogwarts and they had plenty to say about my hair. I think you’re safe.”

“I very much doubt that,” Draco said under his breath. Approximately. She didn’t have especially good hearing and she heard him, just as she was supposed to.

“You have appropriate pyjamas?” Hermione said, preparing to send him off to fetch some, preferably in a dull plaid, as every other color seemed like it would set his grey eyes and fair hair to perfection. She regretted the dressing gown she’d brought, thinking no one would see it but herself.

“I came prepared for every eventuality, Madam Granger,” he said. It sounded like he didn’t regularly sleep in pyjamas then. She would not think about Draco Black Malfoy naked in her bed. She would not.

She did and sighed. He noticed. Misconstrued.

“Perhaps it won’t be so bad,” he said. “We’ll likely be knackered by long days of negotiation, all the visiting and meetings that are required—we’ll probably drop off instantly and the bed is big. You won’t even know I’m in it—”

“I’ll know,” she said, shrugged. “I’ve survived worse.”

“I know,” he said softly.

#dramione #there was only one bed #post-hogwarts #enemies to friends to lovers #one-shot for now #humor #world-building

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allastoredeer · 5 months ago

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TONIGHT'S A WORLD-BUILDING NIGHT! WHO'S READY TO DEEP DIVE INTO PENTAGRAM CITY AND ALL THE COMPLICATED SHIT THAT MAKES IT RUN!!!

EDIT: First bit of world-building has been shared, see post here: World-Building, Character Analysis, and Lore Dumping Part 1: The Hierarchal Power Structure of the Pride Ring.

#*rolling up sleeves*#we're getting into it tonight #im talking about a DEEP DIVE #im going into the cities exports #their imports #the Overlords and their districts #neutral territories #the judicial systems #the power dynamics between Overlords and Sinners #the way all this shit works semi functionally #in the most toxic and corrupt way a city can function #lets GOOOOO #world-building #Hazbin Hotel World Building #Hazbin World-Building #Hazbin World Building

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gofancyninjaworld · 1 year ago

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OPM Manga Update 232 Review: Butterfly and Back

Story: Place Yer Bets!

The chapter opens with Murata casually flexing his rendering skills with a hand-drawn bicycle. This man!

The story opens to a defeated looking hero with incongruously-small butterfly wings on his back. Wondering why he's doing this. McCoy calls to ask if he's ready, and soon, he's on the trail of a monster for the benefit of a select group of punters.

The 'demon'-level monster turns out to be a giant, terrified monsterised chihuahua, which advances down the road uncertain of what to do. It's a planted Wolf-Level monster, intended to give the falsely-badged C-Class hero the appearance of a tough win against the odds.

But life turns out differently. Under the stressor of its most feared situation (being outdoors), Shiverhuahua blows up into a genuine demon-level monster, and soon, 'Papillion 800' is locked in a real life-or-death battle, all while McCoy thinks that he's acting to perfection.

As the odds lengthen, Mad Devil Yankee (the real identity of the hero) forces himself to face the monster, driven by the twin imperatives of wanting to save his mother from whatever harm McCoy has planned for her, and the desire to live up to the example of his hero, Mumen Rider.

Just as it gets hopeless, with characteristic timing, Saitama comes in and blows the monster away.

The major donor looking forward to an upset win is furious, and McCoy storms onto the scene to tell Saitama and Genos off for interfering.

Saitama may ask himself who cares about credit. Genos does, when it comes to making sure his master is recognised for his work. McCoy is about to find out why the Demon Cyborg lives up to his moniker...

.... but luckily for him, and for his role as bad-guy fixer, Child Emperor interrupts to mock him for having his rigged game upset. McCoy excuses himself quickly. Child Emperor explains the hero gambling ruse (more on that to follow). I'm just going to step out a bit to note that it's quite heart-warming to see that when Genos asks why the kid is giving them this information and Child Emperor admits to having been the one who'd been suspicious of Genos, Genos doesn't blow up but lets it slide. I like his little reassuring smiles.

After finding out what this is all about, we see Saitama sleepless in bed, furious at the idea of being thought so ill of as to deserve a x20 rating. However, he also smells opportunity.

The next morning sees him discussing with Genos the possibility of betting on himself to make money. He starts to portray it as a way to teach the Hero Association a lesson but Genos sensibly points out that it makes no actual difference to the house, which puts him on the spot. Luckily for Saitama, the odds start rolling again, meaning the game's afoot again. Saitama runs out the door, Genos following in hot pursuit.

They overtake the heroes assigned to the monster, and Saitama is just about to place his bet (his multiplier having risen to x25) when there is a scream: someone's purse has been snatched by a race-car driver! For a moment, Saitama is torn as to what to do, then...

... the lady is overcome with gratitude for having her family jewels saved. Saitama is also overcome with emotion, but it is not gratitude. At least he's getting a better public image!

However, he's then overwhelmed with a blackness. His depression is back, fuelled by his realising how close he came to the edge of becoming a corrupt money-grubber.

Temptation is never far away, and the lady offers him a diamond ring as a reward. After a long struggle, Saitama refuses it, saying he's not doing this for money.

Well done, Saitama.

Lots to say under the cut.

Meta: A Tawdry Affair

Method in the madness

A race car to snatch purses? Man, it seems anything can happen in this story! Still, when I look at how unsurprised the public is that Saitama caught the driver, I think there's method in the madness. Heroes are really super humans. Even your regular C-Class hero is impossible to out-pace on foot or on a push-bike. Modern problems call for modern solutions.

A world in which people are not surprised that the no-name hero catches a race car is a scary world.

Dirty laundry

The first thing I have to say about this is that it's tawdry. Not a great crime that leaves a giant stain to be dealt with but rather dirt, grubbiness, an all-pervading grubbiness that greys the entire fabric so that no amount of washing can make it look clean. Let's dig into this pile of dirty laundry, shall we?

Nothing wrong with aspiring to be more

I've got to give it to Mad Devil Yankee. In a world where people are often typecast for life (see Garou's despair at being considered a monster), his being able to turn his life around is testament to some serious mental fortitude. Furthermore, he's B-Class Rank 4, all without having joined the Blizzard Group: that takes serious strength.

If you remember nothing about the story, you might think that a high-ranking B-Class hero working independently is no big deal. If you do, you know this guy is the real deal: Fubuki is a hero-crushing asshole.

Turning heroism into bloodsport

It's inevitable that people would bet on heroes. Heroes are very much public figures, and the monsters are an unpredictable lot, so that makes for a highly exciting spectacle. As we can see, a lot of the people watching Papillion 800's predicament aren't anything to do with the HA.

The Hero Association getting a cut of the action is morally reprehensible. And as we see, it leads to moral conflicts. McCoy may be organising it, but the HA is facilitating it. As long as the money's coming in, look the other way.

Like a rotten apple, McCoy being allowed to operate unchecked taints everyone by association.

Unforgivable is what this betting did to Mad Devil Yankee. In a world where people often feel typecast for life (like Garou), turning one's life around in two months from infamous ne'er-do-well to hero has taken an incredible amount of mental fortitude as well as physical prowess. Additionally, as B-Class Rank 4 and yet not press-ganged into the Blizzard Group, this guy is really something in toughness. He's admired Mumen Rider, but his work ethic is all his. And for him to have nearly tossed this all away, thinking himself unworthy to think of himself as a hero, that's a crime.

Getting a guy to think that he deserved to die for making the best of an impossible situation? God, that's ugly.

McCoy bet that Mad Devil would not be psychopathic enough to bet his mother's life and dare him to threaten his mother's health. Even though he'd been coerced, he thought that a true hero wouldn't have taken up such an impossible task under any circumstance. And yet he hung in there and did his best to fight.

Threatening peoples' families is truly the lowest of actions. Using the very benefits given to heroes as leverage digs a basement under that cesspit.

It was good that Mumen Rider put it in perspective for him: no matter what had happened, he'd been faced with a very strong monster, and he'd stood up to it anyway, knowing that it was unlikely to end well for him. That's the stuff a hero is made of. I'm glad that Mad Devil looks to stay a hero, but for him to have been brought this close to despairing over his life and choices, is unforgivable.

Mumen may not have the best muscles, but he has the best words. Often imitated, but never equalled.

Take one wrong step...

Speaking of corruption, it's scary how easy it is to try to play the odds if there's money to be made. Saitama realising how close he'd come to actually participating in the hero betting game for profit was a salutatory reminder that this shit is easy to do and dangerous. If he'd chosen a little differently, he could be several hundred thousand yen up, but he'd have sold his soul to the worst of human impulses.

It's as Saitama said in a much earlier chapter, take one wrong step, and you're in hell.

Came real close to selling your soul there, didn't ya?

It's one of the things that has most endeared me to Saitama. His recognition that no matter how hard he works, there's still a lot of chance in how things have turned out for him and he remembers this when he looks leniently on people like Hammerhead, who he sees as not too different from him. Just one or two bad choices and that could have been him. That kind of wisdom and humility serves him well.

With friends like this...

I'd love to say that Genos would stop him, but damn, that guy… It's a pity he's a cocksucker has such a narrow viewpoint. Every so often, Genos reminds me that he's far more observant and intelligent than he usually gives out. He's noticed the odd rankings and monster disaster levels, and it made sense to him that it was a gambling ploy. So did he investigate the oddities? No man, he filters everything through the metric of 'does this threaten my access to Saitama sensei?' and if the answer is no, he doesn't give a shit. Seriously.

Yeah, yeah, corruption and problems at the Hero Association, but does it actually affect anything *I* care about?

Also, seeing him see what's wrong with Saitama's proposal to gamble but following Saitama to see what happens anyway… no, man, this fixation of yours is wrong. A healthy reminder of why King is so necessary. He'll not just point out what's wrong, but he won't go along with it.

Genos sees clean through Saitama's scam but stop him? Hell no! He's coming along to see what happens.

The Grab Bag of Pop Culture is Back, Baby!

This story reminds me of what's at the heart of One-Punch Man: its love of finding and referencing popular works while making them something of its own. If you know Squid Game, the rich guys betting on human lives will feel very unpleasantly familiar. If you don't, that's fine too: it's self-contained enough to not need familiarity with its references to work. It's true that a lore-heavy story such as this would often be put in an extra chapter, but because what's happening here is exceptionally germane to what happens next, it's here as a main chapter. I liked it quite a bit.

I am VERY GLAD not to see Narinki as one of the major donors betting. I would like to believe that he appreciates too much the actual sacrifices made by heroes to want to bet on their lives.