#Would it kill these people to understand that not a single time is a scavenger/human described even remotely white?

[some-pers0n]

Fun fact! If you whitewash any of the humans (Wren, Cottonmouth, Undauntable, Bandit, Rose, etc), I am legally allowed to maul you! Isn't that wacky?

[artbyblastweave]

I Am Legend is the predecessor of a lot of contemporary zombie fiction, and in particular a lot of survival horror zombie games. The blueprint for the gameplay loop is there- a single survivor with an increasingly fortified and built-up compound, scavenging during the day and hunkering down at night to withstand the siege. One thing I think a lot of zombie games lose when trying to capture that loop, though, is that Robert Neville knows a lot of those people. He's fortifying his actual house where he lived before the apocalypse, a lot of the infected outside are his neighbors, some of them know him and taunt him by name.

Zombie games usually don't model this element because I think a major appeal of zombie games, from a resource allocation perspective, is that it's a fast and legible way to introduce a huge volume of enemies that you don't need to characterize on an individual level. Anonymity is a virtue. On the cheaper side that translates to copy pasting the same handful of sprites or models; on the higher end, you get systems like Project Zomboid or Left 4 Dead, with the ability to algorithmically generate swarms of differentiated zombies on the fly. In both cases you are not looking at characters who are being written. On the flipside, a lot of open-world zombie survival games have protagonists with deliberately tenuous connections to the setting which they inhabit, for purposes of character customization. Understandable, but it precludes any telltale-TWD-style "I knew the people who ran this shop" moments. It ultimately amounts to a whole bunch of strangers trying to kill each other. One of my earliest ever ideas for a game involved playing as the single human survivor of an isolated hamlet in Colorado, whose population has otherwise been completely infected; the gimmick being the amount of development time sunk into every individual zombie. There would be a static number around the map, individually modeled, with extensive environmental storytelling in their homes and workplaces developing their personal connections to each other and to the player character and acting as a characterization vehicle for both. Your goal as the player would be to kill the static set of one or two hundred zombies, gaining the run of the town to yourself, using your involved knowledge of the community to your advantage. Combat as a tense and occasionally frenetic affair, dependent on positioning, planning, and Trap-making rather than a straightforward hack-and-slash rampage. Has anyone ever attempted something like this?

[lesuccube]

➚ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐊 𝐃 : ᴀᴜ-ᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴᴛ

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — dancing with danger .

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 — no malware detected

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 — not beta'd , constructive criticism is welcomed. reblogs and comments are appreciated .

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 0.8k

according to aristotle, humans are social animals, that we thrive best in the company of others. while that may prove true to some, it wasn't to you. the only thing this phrase would describe you as perfectly was an animal. running on pure instinct and adrenaline. an untamed beast.

a wolf in sheep's clothing? no. a more accurate representation of you would be a black mamba. blending into the night, hiding in places the light doesn't shine, the shadows became your home. it's your job to but at the same time, you liked your isolation.

far away from nosy people, from people that talked too much, that took up too much space and didn't know when enough was enough. you hated that, you hated them. and your handler took advantage of that.

taken in by a mysterious man, he raised you learning how to fight, self defense, martial arts, to kill and maim with your bare hands. he also taught you how to fight with every weapon known to mankind, even something like a spoon. now, why would you as a child let yourself be taken in by such a person? because as much as you loved being alone, living with him where you had a roof over your head instead of sleeping in parking garages, food on the table three times a day instead of scavenging for scraps, a shower instead of stinking, the works.

growing up, you were detached from your emotions. you were extremely apathetic and unfeeling. he knew that and took advantage of it to do his work. now, being an assassin wasn't all that bad. most of the time, your assignments consisted of cleaning society of very bad people and you relished in doing it, after all your services weren't cheap. and some days, you were sent to chase after regular people with regular lives. normal people who's worst crimes was probably arguing with others. but as stated before, you were unfeeling. robotic even. you don't care about all that jazz.

until jake lockley. your next assignment. the target on his back? your handler never explained except for the fact that someone really high up wanted him gone to get back at his own handler? whatever that meant.

but see, the thing was, he knew how to fight back. and he never backed down from one either. and the longer you chased him, the more you seemed to be captivated by him. all those witty spanish comebacks, all the subtle Itouches when he dodged your blows and every single close call that sent you both toppling over each other… they all made your heart go crazy for some unknown reason.

for someone so isolated from the world, you sure craved his company. and that's what boggled you the most; you just can't seem to understand your attraction towards him, unable to distinguish it from the innate loathing you held for each and every one of your assignments.

maybe that should've been your warning but you were never the type to listen to anyone but your gut anyways, and your gut tells you that you either liked him or hated him and it continues to perplex you so. so on one fateful encounter after the other, you managed to pull him under you after a hard blow to the head.

you pointed the tip of your dagger to his throat, a snarl on your lips as you breathed heavily, agonizing bruises blooming underneath your layer of clothing. "i'll cut your throat! that'll shut you up!" you rasped, threat half empty even with your weapon ready to slit him bloody open.

with ragged breaths, jake looks up at you, nose bloody and his own lips curled into a small smirk. "you're beautiful…" he whispers and those two words was enough to send your heart ablaze and your tummy churning with thousands of butterflies. your cheeks heated at the simple compliment, breaking through your murderous intent, turning you, a cold-blooded assassin into a mess like a teenage girl that just got her crush to notice her.

in your mind, you think you'll never be able to finish this assignment. jake will forever play with you this cat and mouse game, a neverending chase that tiptoed the border of love and murder, bloodied fists and bloody hearts. both your claws ready to tear each other open to reach into the depths of your chests and swap hearts in your carnal desire to be with one another.

there is beauty in violence where love is the center of it all. one soul so alone in the world and the other trying to find its place away from the shadows of those before him. there is beauty in violence in the way you would continue to rush after each other, hoping to be the first to touch and feel the other underneath fingertips and desiring gazes. there is beauty in violence the way jake will always be ready to receive you no matter how bloody you two will end up afterwards.

[inlovewithalcinadimitrescu]

Soooo

I just read this book about cannibalism, I immediately thought about this idea of butcher/supervisor!reader and a purebred!wanda

It would be either reader finds/frees/gets Wanda somewhere in her farm and takes her home, knowing she could sell her/save her?

(I like the idea of Wanda somehow scaping her batch and Reader saving her from scavengers)

Wanda was raised and made to be consumed, she has not a single knowledge about society, she gets scared easily and has no vocal cords because the ‘meat’ doesn’t speak. (I took that straight out of the book)

Reader locks Wanda in her garage and fulfills her basic necessities, speaking to her softly and cleaning her gently. Until Reader has had enough of taking care of her and she frees her. Wanda looks at her curiously and Reader gets back home to call it a night, Reader will be surprised once she goes out for work and sees Wanda sleeping on her front porch.

Reader finds herself liking Wanda’s company even tho she saw her as a burden at first. She began teaching her basic things, like how to sit, to use cutlery, to go to the bathroom, clean herself, open doors, and most importantly a form of communication.

Reader knew Wanda was purebred because of the branding iron mark they give to every purebred. Feeding her left overs since she doesn’t have the appropriate food for her. Treating Wanda as a dog at first since she doesn’t really know what she’s doing either.

Reader has never liked the reality she lives in, breeding, raising, selecting, nurturing, killing, gutting, cutting, packaging, selling, consuming humans. She could consider herself a vegan, but if people found out of her thoughts they would sacrifice her. After all the special meat is the most delicious luxury. Coming home to Wanda is all she can think about after a draining shift at her normalized grotesque work.

The humanization of the meat is something prohibited, having some sort of relationship with them is a complete violation of the law and a degrading action that will be punished with the involved being sacrificed.

Having domestic heads imply a lot of paperwork and visits from supervisors and monitoring from the government, so if they catch her they will not stop coming until she consumes the meat. Reader keeps Wanda a secret from the outer world.

Reader helps Wanda, she takes her as hers. Wanda is curious about everything in the house, she has hurt herself a lot while discovering how things work. Reader had to lock her in a room that only had a mattress so she could be out of danger. Wanda doesn’t understand any language so when she watches the TV she just stares at colors and people, still when it’s loud she smiles at you, showing her teeth. For the first time she was experiencing feelings other than pain and fear. All she knew before was submission.

No one is looking for Wanda, since they assumed she was taken by scavengers, so it’s obvious you have her safe in your home, right ?

Book

Animals allegedly got infected by a deadly virus that affects humans as well, after the sacrifice of most animals and the prohibition of their meat, humans still craved meat. Cannibalism cases began appearing and the government was forced to legalize it.

In this dystopia they call human meat premium meat, they refer to all humans that are meant to become meat as heads or merchandise.( Also as just meat 🍖)They shall never call them humans or persons because they will be punished, they are meat, they see them as animals, and the purebreds are the most delicious and rare of all.

Feel free to ask anything about this and I hope y’all liked my little rant :)

[edenmemes]

misc poetry sentence starters

❝  one gets so used to one’s own horrors, one forgets how they must seem to other people.  ❞ ❝  you remind me what love lives in this skin.  ❞ ❝  you are the most phantom-like of all; you are a mere dream.  ❞ ❝  i’m not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck—the places floating, finally legible.  ❞ ❝  the world was made so we can find each other in it.  ❞ ❝  the night isn’t dark; the world is dark. stay with me a little longer.  ❞ ❝  i want you desperately. i want your strength and your softness, your hands, all of you.  ❞ ❝  is that too much to expect? that i would name the stars for you?  ❞ ❝  against your cheek my hand is warm and full of tenderness.  ❞ ❝  the world grows green again when you smile.  ❞ ❝  your share of pains would fill a sea.  ❞ ❝  i’m so stuck on the ‘was’ of people.  ❞ ❝  what i love in you is your power of loving, a bit wild, a bit primitive, but absolute.  ❞ ❝  i like figuring you out. you are so human and puzzling.  ❞ ❝  the unwillingness to try is worse than any failure.  ❞ ❝  you wanted happiness. i can’t blame you for that.  ❞ ❝  i did violence to my own heart.  ❞ ❝  i don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth.  ❞ ❝  like a magpie, i am a scavenger of shiny things: fairy tales and dead languages.  ❞ ❝  and here you come with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue.  ❞ ❝  you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry.    only the sun has come this close, only the sun.  ❞ ❝  sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof you’ve been ruined.  ❞ ❝  when will it cease, this monstrous rage of yours?  ❞ ❝  i will plant my hands in the garden. i will grow, i know, i know.  ❞ ❝  i had it all and i want it back again.  ❞ ❝  i don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.  ❞ ❝  we are two reflections that cross swords with each other.  ❞ ❝  as for me, i am a watercolour. i wash off.  ❞ ❝  do you dare send me away as though you were were waiting for something better?  ❞ ❝  my dear, you are in danger of being burned by your own flame.  ❞ ❝  i am three oceans away from my soul.  ❞ ❝  you, occasionally, glimmer with a light i’ve never seen before. it frightens me.  ❞ ❝  i went to sleep last night so i could see you.  ❞ ❝  even the eyes of gods must adjust to light. even gods have gods.  ❞ ❝  how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?  ❞ ❝  it does me no good to be good to me now.  ❞ ❝  i may look alright, but if you were to look more closely you wouldn’t find a single healthy bit in me.  ❞ ❝  i must clothe myself in other worlds.  ❞ ❝  suffering is the privilege of those who feel.  ❞ ❝  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.  ❞ ❝  the vigor, the fire, that enables you to love and create. when you lose that, you’ve lost everything.  ❞ ❝  i can be bold, because i have you with me always.  ❞ ❝  you are shaking fists and trembling teeth. i know: you did not mean to be cruel. that does not mean you were kind.  ❞ ❝  not that i want to be a god or a hero, just to change into a tree,  grow for ages, not hurt anyone.  ❞ ❝  i laughed today. for a second i was unhaunted.  ❞ ❝  you are sunlight through a window, which i stand in, warmed.  ❞ ❝  there’s something electric in your blood.  ❞ ❝  you say you are broken,   but broken mirrors like you create the most beautiful patterns of light.  ❞ ❝  time doesn’t obey our commands.  ❞ ❝  i love you quite passionately, and with a touch of tragedy.  ❞ ❝  to feel anything deranges you. to be seen feeling anything strips you naked.  ❞ ❝  i love you --- like a storm bursts overhead --- i must confess it; all the more fiercely because you burn and bite.  ❞ ❝  and i have seen rivers, not unlike you, that failed to find their way back.  ❞ ❝  i am less a god now that you’ve touched me.  ❞ ❝  your words are gentle; but my blood runs cold to think what plots you may be nursing deep within your heart.  ❞ ❝  you said i killed you --- haunt me then.  ❞ ❝  your soul is frail and solemn, loyal and spring-like.  ❞ ❝  you look like you’ve eaten the sun, like you drank so much sunlight you’re drowning in it.  ❞ ❝  strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty.  ❞ ❝  you will hear thunder and remember me.  ❞ ❝  ever think it’s possible for us to be happy?  ❞ ❝  and i would wonder across all the deserts of this world, even after death, to search for you.  ❞ ❝  since we’re bound to be something, why not together?  ❞ ❝  i am ashes were once i was fire.  ❞ ❝  this mouth will destroy you the moment you mistake it for something soft, for something that is yours.  ❞ ❝  it’s no easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.  ❞ ❝  kill the light! i’d rather wallow in the dark.  ❞ ❝  i have thought of you often since the darkness.  ❞ ❝  with your presence the sun becomes irrelevant.  ❞ ❝  there is no god left in this skin. there’s just the ash. just the ash.  ❞ ❝  open your eyes, look more sharply, see me as i am.  ❞ ❝  what the hell is tragedy? i am.  ❞ ❝  i’ve got a lot of feeling for you. you’re kind.  ❞ ❝  how beautiful it is, how beautiful, that glow before the stars break.  ❞ ❝  so much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone, and yet prepare to live again.  ❞ ❝  i am myself. that is not enough.  ❞ ❝  i may be mad, god-seized, but i will stand outside my madness.  ❞ ❝  my power, which to me is still a curse ---  ❞ ❝  ocean sea with its caressing swell; it has so often cooled my heart.  ❞ ❝  do you bathe in perfume, and dry yourself in light?  ❞ ❝  i like you; your eyes are full of language.  ❞ ❝  let me tell you what i do know.    i am more than one thing and not all of those things are good.  ❞ ❝  you are the cause and the cure --- both.  ❞ ❝  i have kisses for the back of your neck.  ❞ ❝  your beautiful glance is unbearably cruel.  ❞ ❝  we might meet again, someday between dreams at dawn.  ❞ ❝  suffering is a terrible fire; it either purifies or destroys.  ❞ ❝  lately it hurts more to imagine you are a stranger rather than a destroyer.  ❞ ❝  and i say to myself: a moon will rise from my darkness.  ❞ ❝  since you walked out on me, i’m getting lovelier by the hour. i glow like a corpse in the dark.  ❞ ❝  i will not whine. i will obey and be forever still.  ❞ ❝  you move like the moon.  ❞ ❝  my eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears.  ❞ ❝  in your eyes, the fires of twilight.  ❞ ❝  do not haunt my soul; i have done well forgetting you.  ❞ ❝  i am no one. i cannot love. it’s in my blood.  ❞ ❝  you’re wearing your armor to protect your heart. who can blame you? it only makes sense in a world like this one.  ❞ ❝  you are not real. you are a dream of a dream.  ❞ ❝  there are so many things i’m not allowed to tell you.  ❞ ❝  i am indeed a shameless, evil-minded and abominable creature.  ❞ ❝  come this evening --- i am eager for stars.  ❞ ❝  i am on fire with that soft sound you make, in uttering my name.  ❞ ❝  i want you mostly in the morning when my soul is weak from dreaming.  ❞ ❝  to me you are the desert and the sea; everything secretive.  ❞ ❝  i thought i was wounded to the core but i was only bruised.  ❞ ❝  it is a dead heart. it is inside of me. it is a stranger.  ❞ ❝  i live --- but i’m mutilated.  ❞ ❝  if there is a light then i am going to swallow it.    if there is a god then i’m going to make him cry.  ❞ ❝  i am condemned to be a saint or a monster: unable to be the one, unwilling to be the other.  ❞ ❝  you will open your wounds and make them a garden.  ❞ ❝  i come home --- and i feel like a ghost returning its haunt.  ❞ ❝  i planted roses, but without you they were thorns.  ❞ ❝  everything inside me is in revolt.  ❞ ❝  how this darkness soaks me through and through.  ❞ ❝  give me my robe, put on my crown; i have immortal longings in me.  ❞ ❝  say something dangerous like i love you.  ❞ ❝  listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?  ❞ ❝  in times of crisis, we must decide again and again whom we love.  ❞ ❝  breathe the scent of little, earthly things. let the twilight touch you.  ❞ ❝  my heart is just like the ocean, has storm and calm and tides.  ❞ ❝  you became for me a sacred being, not to be touched save in adoring thoughts.  ❞ ❝  gods are stubborn. so am i.  ❞ ❝  is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?  ❞ ❝  there’s something soft in me. i killed it and it’s rotting.  ❞ ❝  beware. beware. there is a tenderness.  ❞ ❝  half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. real gods require blood.  ❞ ❝  i’m alive. like a wound, a flower in the flesh, the path of aching blood is open within me.  ❞ ❝  you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.  ❞ ❝  i have it in me...to scare myself with my own desert places.  ❞ ❝  my mouth still houses century-old magic.     in my ears i hear a ringing and singing and no god.  ❞ ❝  keep talking. i’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.  ❞ ❝  i’m full of poetry now. rot and poetry. rotten poetry.  ❞ ❝  this skin is sick with loneliness.  ❞ ❝  memories are sharp. they bite. i have spent most of my life trying to grow a thicker skin just to make sure i would not bleed out whenever i felt those teeth scrape up against me.  ❞ ❝  i wonder if i will ever find a language to speak of the things that haunt me the most.  ❞ ❝  after fury, what do you do with the remains?  ❞ ❝  come on, dance with me. the earth is spinning. we can’t just stand on it.  ❞ ❝  let’s admit, without apology, what we do together.  ❞ ❝  try to find the right place for yourself. if you can’t find it, at least dream of it.  ❞ ❝  it takes grace to remain kind in cruel situations.  ❞ ❝  i am too full of life to be half-loved.  ❞ ❝  today you want nothing because wanting comes too close to feeling.  ❞ ❝  there’s nothing more terrible, more alluring, more mysterious than love.  ❞ ❝  heavenly wine and roses seem to whisper to me when you smile.  ❞ ❝  my soul is devoutly and wholly under your spell.  ❞ ❝  will you see the human in my being?  ❞ ❝  if i had a flower for every time i thought of you…i could walk through my garden forever.  ❞ ❝  part broken part whole, you begin again.  ❞ ❝  i don’t know if love’s a feeling. sometimes i think it’s a matter of seeing. seeing you.  ❞ ❝  i wonder which will get you killed faster, your loyalty or your stubbornness?  ❞ ❝  whether you come as a lover or an exeutioner, i am ready to receive you.  ❞ ❝  i think i understand your longing. it looks so much like mine.  ❞ ❝  i’ve had so many knives stuck into me. when they hand me a flower, i can’t quite make out what it is.  ❞ ❝  i like the sea: we understand one another. it is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have; so am i.  ❞ ❝  do i not live? badly, i know, but i live.  ❞ ❝  something of you stuck with me. a splinter.  ❞ ❝  i clung to your hands so that something human might exist in the chaos.  ❞ ❝  sometimes i shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away. oh you never will.  ❞ ❝  my golden love, if only you knew, what precious honey you are for me.  ❞ ❝  i had an old wound once, but it is healing.  ❞ ❝  always this in-betweenness, this almost, this it might be that...  ❞ ❝  when i close my eyes, i see you. when i open my eyes i want to see you.  ❞ ❝  dark as it is --- you see, that little flickering, is the light of my soul.  ❞ ❝  am i a monster or is this what it means to be a person?  ❞ ❝  i am talking about evil. it blooms. it eats. it grins.  ❞ ❝  sapphires are those eyes of yours, ravishingly sweet.  ❞

[candysweetposts]

Day 167

You can call him the new sun.

Description:

His name is Dean Beaumont. He's around Rose's age but a bit younger. He's 178 cm or 5'10, very french, and a demon similar to Rose (yes, they have a lot in common). He's a sensitive man who loves the outdoors and is also a bit shy.

Well, I said that he's similar to Rose but I won't tell his story from the demon's perspective but from the human he once was. He was an orphan living on the streets of Lyon with some other kids just like him. He wasn’t the oldest but acted like a big brother to them. THy were usually sleeping in abandoned places and sometimes in barns at night. During daylight, they were begging for money or stealing from everyone they could. This made some of the locals and nobles at that time hate these children who just exist to make everyone’s life more difficult.

One day, a rich lord decided to organize a feast for all those starving children. A vas majority went to participate. Dean refused for some reason and said that he’ll go later. So in the evening, he went to this mansion but the doors were closed. E found an open window and sneaked in. Here he found a blood bath. There wasn’t a single soul alive. This made Dean realize that this was a trap and he fled the place. He was very heartbroken and swore to get revenge on the man who organized this. So he tried to find him and where he actually lives. This took some time but Dean found out this lord was a general in the french army. There fore he joined the army at 19. Tho he wasn’t very fit for this kind of “job” he was a very determined person and was moving pretty fast. His plan was to cough this man off-guard and kill him. But Dean was pretty noticeable beyond all those men. He refused to cut his hair (that was over a 3rd of his body long) and was.t so in shape making a lot of soldiers wonder what was he doing there. But he became pretty good as the time passed. 

It was night and Dean felt like it was time. So he snuck from the dormitory and went to the general’s room caring a sharp blade. He went to that room but it seem that no one was there. At that moment the general appeared and Dean attacked him. The General was pretty strong so he mobilized Dean. He then called some other soldiers and they decided it would be so fun to just guillotine execute him. So they did that.

Dean open his eyes slowly and found himself naked in the place he was executed, but he wasn’t alone. Next to him there lay his headless body. He freaked out and tried to understand what happened. In an excess of emotions, the place started burning for no reason so he ran away. He somehow realized it was him who started the fire and tried doing it again. Seeing that he has this fire ability plus the confusion made him decide to burn everything and everyone. So he went full crazy mode and didn’t spare anyone. He kept the general last and he did the same thing he did to Dean then put the head on a stake. His eyes reached a mirror just to see the monster he’d become. One of his eyes was a deep red making him even more confused. So quickly snapped out and realized what he’d done so he ran away deep into the woods. There he decided to live so he cannot hurt people again. He started building a shelter and hunting. He was almost isolated from civilization except for some times when he went out to scavenge for things.

He was hunting one day when he sensed something nearby so he shot instantly. He found this “boy” who looked hurt but didn’t have much time to think because a woman showed up and he shot at her. She caught the arrow pretty quick. She looked like a noblewoman making him detest her from the start. The “boy” quickly fainted making both’s attention gather on “him”. Dean forgot about his anger and took the “boy” to his place while the woman followed him. They didn’t talk much but she seem to like making remarks here and there. Dean started a fire and placed the injured person near. He made a comment mentioning the fact that that’s a boy and the woman said that that’s actually a girl and Invited him to verify. He felt flustered and just believed her. So the injured girl woke up and they all started introducing themselves. The noblewoman was Rose and the injured one was Sumi. They seem to have a lot in common and decided to live together since none of them really had somewhere to belong. They stayed at Dean a couple of days but Rose proposed another place much better. This was a house uptown. Dean being isolated for a long period of time was very anxious at first. He and Rose got a habit of cooking together and training while Sumi was sleeping because… (read her story). Rose loved teasing Dean and because he has such long hair loved to punish him by cutting a small part of it everytime he was losing against her. Despite that, he still thought of her and Sumi as his family. He also got a crush on Sumi for some reason. He found her very cute and innocent. They lived there for quite a while and got to know each other well with the good and bad things. 

One day, they decided to visit some places. In one of them, they all meet this guy (Alan) and Rose went to attack him. Seeing this both Sumi and Dean joined her and they all got defeated. They all were severely injured so Alan invited them to stay at this place until they heal. There Alan introduced himself so did they. For some reason, they just moved there and never came back to their old home. Like in their old house, Rose and Dean cooked but they stopped training. Dean still got strong feelings for Sumi so Rose talked to him and convinced him to confess. So he did it and found out Sumi was feeling the same. On their first time, they were both very shy, Sumi being very embarrassed about her body and Dean didn’t know how things work. But it was ok in the end. At some point, Rose and Alan started dating as well but it didn’t last long. After that Dean and Sumi decided to move out and live on their own. They got married and had some decent jobs, Dean as a bartman, and Sumi working at a bakery. They disused having kids, but even if they adopted one (bc Sumi can’t have kids), Simi still doesn’t feel ready.

Nowadays they’re a happy couple and Dean learned to accept his past. He also learned about what he really is but didn’t react as bad as Rose.

[schlaggot]

OKAY you seem to want to hear more so i will provide :] i am so sorry the formatting is so fucct i wrote this in apple notes and pasted it here LMAO

PLEASE BEAR WITH ME ON THIS

philza is a god. this is a popular fan theory and i know a lot of people subscribe to this!! its very good. we also know wilbur and likely tommy are his biological children, and techno is adopted. heres where my headcanons come in! im putting it under a cut cuz its a lot

wilbur and tommy weren't born like normal humans were. they were created from something existing, as philza had the power to do so. but, said power was draining, and difficult to do. the way that zeus created athena from his head and dionysus from his thigh? thats how wilbur and tommy were born.

wilbur was born from a fish. PLEASE STICK WITH ME,,. phil had caught this fish in a bucket, intent on starting an aquarium in his hardcore world. he decided to name the first fish wilbur. it was just supposed to be a joke- a small aquarium in his base with a single fish. when he'd pass by to get materials he'd greet said fish. interact with it, feed it, talk to it when he was feeling particularly lonesome. then, something happened. he mightve broken the glass, something might've gone wrong with a creeper explosion- but the fish got out of the water, and there was no realistic way for philza to save it.

so, using his powers, he incorporated the fish into his body. id imagine it was either his chest (because he was so attached to this fish that he wanted it close to his heart) or his throat (so that it could finally have a voice to speak to him). using his power, he was able to (please dont kill me for using this term) 'birth' the child using his god powers. no i wont elaborate <3. this would explain wilbur's whole. um. fish theme. (i know milo and new milo arent canon but also please give me this. also sally.) wilbur was born with a voice meant to lead and comfort, a voice he didnt have before.

techno was a piglin from the nether. a baby piglin, training to become a piglin brute. when phil got to the nether, he found a baby piglin all alone. deciding to care for it wasn't really his first thought, but it was curious of him, and he'd see it every time he entered the nether. eventually, they started interacting. philza would bring it some food or gold from the overworld, and the piglin would give him small gofts in return. a broken sword, an ender pearl, a glass bottle- little things the baby piglin had found while scavenging. phil would realize after a bit that this piglin had been abandoned by the rest of its clan, and he figured he'd take care of the little guy when he'd see him. getting bolder, philza would eventually venture further into the nether. he'd come upon a bastion, and the piglins inside obviously weren't too happy about seeing someone from the overworld there. they attacked him, and funnily enough, this little piglin, brandishing a dull golden sword, tried to defend him. philza likely wouldve died without the little guy's help, so he decided to make a plan to bring the piglin to the overworld.

unfortunately, piglins do turn into zombies when they enter the overworld. its an unfortunate fact. and philza knew this. so, in order to stop this from happening, he gave the piglin a vial of his own blood. the blood of a god. it would keep him rejuvinated for awhile- but it came with an unfortunate side effect. if the piglin didn't consume the blood of a living being for long enough, he'd begin to rot, starting the process of becoming a zombie all over again. he could always recover from this if given blood fast enough, but once he was fully transformed, it would no longer be possible for him to recover. so, philza was thankful that this piglin had an innate instinct for killing. named him technoblade since he thought it sounded cool and fit the little piglin. taught him english, sparred with him, and provided him with enough blood to keep him healthy until techno could reliably hunt for himself. blood for the blood god

now, for the youngest. tommy was born from something not physical, but a song that philza and wilbur had come up with off the top of his head. wilbur was only 7 or 8 at the time, but had a talent for coming up with tunes that philza would hum throughout the day. one particularly nice one was actually a bit of an earworm. philza found himself humming it regularly, patting out the rhythm to it when he wasn't paying attention, and singing nonsense words in place of actual vocals when he was preoccupied with building. "what's the name of the song you sung the other day?" philza'd asked the young wilbur. wilbur hadn't named the songs he'd made before, and didn't quite understand what 'naming a song' meant.

"tommy!" he'd replied.

it was endearing, a human name for a tune he couldn't get out of his head.

it had him thinking for awhile. it took a lot of effort. a redstone contraption, noteblocks, a blank music disc he'd happened to procure from a creeper. wilbur's musical knowledge was especially handy when philza was trying to get the notes just right.

in the end, he'd created what he'd set out to- a recording of his son's song onto a music disc, named Tommy.

creating another life with it like the one he'd created before was even more difficult the second time around- but in the end he had a healthy baby son. tommy. tommy's discs aren't just some useless pieces of music- they're part of who he is.

[pjo-whore]

Percy Jackson At Hogwarts

Chapter 1: Wizards Are What Now?

Look, Percy never wanted to be half-blood.

Being a half-blood – the child of a mortal human and a god – was dangerous. It was scary. Most of the time, on top of having neglectful parents and a dysfunctional and incestuous family that wanted you dead for petty reasons, it got you killed in other painful, nasty ways.

There wasn’t a day that went by where Percy didn’t feel envious of the kids who didn’t have to deal with the mythological world.

Percy Jackson was seventeen years old. Until a month ago, he was fighting a war against a Greek primoradial, the Earth Mother incarnate, Gaea – also known as his great grandmother. Before that, he fought in a war against his grandfather, Kronos, Greek Titan of Time, who wanted to overthrow the Olympian gods and take over the world and the Empire State Building. Somewhere in between he also found time to spend a month in literal Greek hell, Tartarus, who also happened to be his great grandfather, and who also tried to murder him on sight.

Was Percy a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

And right now, he was still trying to clean up the mess from the Second Giant War.

Now that there wasn’t a war looming overhead, the gods’ recent exploits were coming to light, and new demigods were popping up everywhere, everyday. The number of demigods skyrocketed now that they were actively searching and not waiting for them to stumble into Camp on their own.

But that also meant there were new kids to train, more demigods for the gods to claim, and less time to recoup from the recent war.

Less than a month had passed since Gaea’s defeat.

The days were filled with helping each other get back on their feet, rebuilding the camps, and trying to keep the fragile peace in order.

There was still a lot to sort out, and the gods weren’t as hands-on as most would like. There was conflict building up. News spread about how the gods helped the seven demigods of the prophecy fight the giants, because a giant couldn’t be killed by a mortal alone, and this made many jealous and angry. The gods could pop in for a single battle when it was their own ass on the line, but not when a group of their own literal kids needed to rebuild their home that was dedicated to the gods?

Besides Chiron and Dionysus, the only god to physically stay at Camp Half-Blood following the battle against Gaea due to his punishment from Zeus, there were no other adults. The oldest demigods were barely twenty. Despite age, most, if not all, the demigods looked to the prophecy demigods for guidance and leadership.

Annabeth, Jason, Percy, Piper, and Nico.

The brunt of the responsibility fell on the daughter of Athena, and the son of Poseidon. They led their Camp through the Second Titan War, and now they were survivors of another war.

Things weren’t easy for a long time.

The Camp was completely ravaged.

During Gaea’s seize of the Greek demigod Camp, the cabins were burned by the monsters and toppled by Gaea’s massive earthquakes. Not even the Big House – the staple of Camp Half-Blood, the oldest building on the lot – survived the attack.

Camp Jupiter didn’t fare any better, but their buildings had been more structurally sound, thicker and built of material that didn’t burn and crumble. Enough buildings were still standing well enough to inhabit.

Everything had to be rebuilt for Camp Half-Blood.

Nobody could be sent home – to their mortal homes, with mortal parents, and a mortal life, mortal being the slang for “normal” among the mythological world – despite the new lack of residency at Camp Half-Blood. Kids needed to heal. There were nightmares and PTSD. Trauma and concussions. People to be counted, bodies missing, some so mauled they were impossible to identify. Several bodies were unearthed from the ground, sucked in by Gaea’s attack and suffocated beneath the dirt.

Shrouds were made for those who could be identified, the unknown buried in unmarked graves to be remembered. Those who were missing were given honorary shrouds, unknowing if they were in one of the unmarked graves. The Romans were unable to do their traditional funeral rituals, transporting the bodies all the way to Camp Jupiter, and were burned in shrouds alongside the Greeks.

Mortal parents simply couldn’t help.

They couldn’t fathom their children being in a war.

There were fears that demigods would be taken away from Camp Half-Blood by their mortal parents, horrified at what their kids were put through. Chiron especially worried about demigods who would be kept from Camp by parents, forcing them to live alone without any mythological world support, to defend against monsters on their own, without any magic or special weapons.

So, among the remaining able-bodied demigods, Greeks alongside Romans worked together to erect the new Big House. Tents from the Romans’ siege on Camp Half-Blood were gifted to the Greeks to provide residency until the new cabins were built, while the Romans started to march back home.

During all the chaos, Percy didn’t have any time to sit down and process all that happened.

The whole Camp looked up to him as a leader, but Percy didn’t feel very strong or wise.

He only felt bitter.

There were some who walked by and whispered “lucky” and “prophecy.”

Some who stopped talking as soon as he walked into the room.

Those who acted like he wasn’t even human, just some untouchable hero; but they ostracized him.

Percy was aware that he was one of the so-called “lucky” campers; lucky being compared, because at least he walked away with all his limbs intact.

It didn’t feel like he was lucky.

He wasn’t unscathed. He bore many scars, visible and not. His time in Tartarus was an impossible nightmare on bad nights, and a shadow on good days.

Percy was learning that he had triggers.

He was learning Annabeth did, too.

Neither liked using elevators.

Annabeth’s expression went tight when Percy used his powers around her. She turned away, sometimes completely leaving the area.

She got antsy in the dark, a childhood fear resurfaced.

There were other little things; at night when she had nightmares she would toss and turn in bed, sweating through her clothes and sheets, despite the breeze being cold. Sometimes Annabeth would completely avoid Percy, acting snappish, always coming back and apologizing in the end, and they would hold each other like they were hanging over the chasm again.

Annabeth refused to talk about what she saw in her nightmares, and Percy never pushed. He was one of the only people who could understand what she was going through.

Sometimes all they could do was sit and try to drown out the memories of The Pit.

Percy’s triggers were different.

He developed a deep-seated hatred for empousai. The moment he saw one, his body started to shake with adrenaline and nerves, fire flashing before his eyes.

Percy could no longer look at the stars without feeling a deep loss, tears pricking at his eyes.

He prayed to his father, Poseidon, more often, as if trying to re-establish his connection to the sea, to re-establish his connection to the Overworld, as if that could cleanse him of what happened in The Pit. As if he could wash away the touch of The Pit.

Percy’s nightmares were always blurry and violent. He wouldn’t snap awake like others. He didn’t startle or jerk upright. He didn’t make a single noise. He would wake silently, and lay there in bed, eyes open and unseeing, that shattered glass feeling he always dreaded at the bottom of his stomach. After he could never go back to sleep, and he would get up and sit on the tile in his cabin for hours and look in the mirror and wait for the image to change. He would wait for it to reflect what he feared, though it never did.

*

“Okay, so, how big is the situation? Is it like, ‘Aphrodite lost her hairbrush again’ big? Or is it ‘Gaea has risen again’ big?”

Annabeth frowned. “I don’t know. All Chiron said was that a god needed our help – and I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the sound of that.” She chewed her bottom lip in thought as they headed toward the Big House. They had been asked to attend a private meeting with Chiron, outside of the camp counselor meeting. “He sounded serious, too. Whichever god it is must be an asshole to seek help so soon after the war.”

She wasn’t wrong, Percy thought.

Jason was appointed Pontifex Maximus in Camp Jupiter, and as such he was responsible of advising the praetors, ruling over the Camp Jupiter counsel, and overseeing the work and prayers to the minor gods. His promise to Kymopoleia to bring worship and awareness for all minor gods became his fulltime job, and it was ruled that most gods must go through Jason to request help from either demigod camp.

A god asking for help directly after a full-scale war? Using Chiron as their connection? It was a hit below the belt, and it made Percy frustrated.

A few demigods raised their heads in greeting as Percy and Annabeth passed by the arts and crafts center. Conner and Travis Stoll, who were trying to build bombs with bits and pieces from the forge, took one look at Percy, then at Annabeth, and wiggled their brows suggestively. Percy unsubtly stuck them the bird, and they started to laugh their assess off.

The Big House was smaller now, after being rebuilt.

What could be scavenged from the attic was saved, but most of it was lost. Magical artifacts and ancient texts were burned and crushed. Now the Big House served mostly as the infirmary, aside from the drop-by medicinal tent near the Apollo cabin, where more medical supplies were. The Apollo and Hephaestus cabins had been the first to be rebuilt because they gave needed services.

Aside from the infirmary, the Big House had a commons area for meetings, and housed a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.

Checking in the commons area, Chiron was in his wheelchair. Nico was sitting at the beloved ping pong table, which had somehow survived the siege on Camp, and Thalia was sitting backwards on a chair by the new counselor table, which no one ever used.

Percy sat next to Nico and twirled the ping pong paddle between his hands, Annabeth taking her usual seat during counsel meetings.

Chiron looked tense.

“Now, I know that only a month has passed since the end of the Second Giant War, but –”

The air practically sparked with the collective tension that built.

“– a new quest has been issued.”

Annabeth leaned forward in her seat, interested. “Chiron, you can’t have an official quest without a prophecy. And the last time I checked; the Oracle of Delphi wasn’t working right now.”

“Well, it’s a good thing this isn’t a quest from the Greek pantheon, then.”

Percy cocked a brow and shared a look with Annabeth.

“The Roman pantheon doesn’t have an oracle, and their last augur exploded himself, so –”

“It’s a friend of Lady Hecate, the Triple Goddess.”

Dead silence.

“The Triple Goddess?” Percy parroted. “I don’t follow.”

“The Triple Goddess is of the Old Religion, once practiced in Europe hundreds of years ago by the druids and magic users in general. It belonged to Albion, a land of five kingdoms, before it split into the United Kingdom and Ireland.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Nico said.

“All those years ago, in the middle ages, after the golden age of the Greek pantheon, the Old Religion became very popular in Albion. Magic was something that anyone could practice even if they weren’t born with the innate talent, with the proper training. Through the ages, though, the religion declined, and the New Religion rose and became the staple. While the Old Religion relied on the magic of the land, sea, and sky; the New Religion relied on your inner magical core, and so not everyone could do this new magic.”

Chiron shifted in his wheelchair and pulled out a small stack of photos, but when he tossed them onto the ping pong table, the demigods saw that they held moving pictures.

In one photo, it showed a person standing over a boiling cauldron, on the wooden table beside them, old parchment with a quill that moved by itself, writing on the paper. The picture moved slightly, the character stirring the cauldron. Then the animated picture reset and repeated.

In another photo, two persons stood facing each other, holding purposefully shaped wooden sticks, pointing them at each other. Bright lights exploded from the tips of the sticks, and their robes and hair swayed with strong winds.

In the last photo, a person was wearing a uniform of sorts, with a helmet and pads on their knees and elbows. They held an old broomstick between their knees, and metal hinges held on the back close to the bristles, like a hitch for the feet. In the picture, the person grabbed onto the end of the broomstick and shot into the air, like magic. It gave image to the stereotype of witches flying on brooms in the night.

“The Old Religion died out because the land lost its magic. Only select spots held magical creatures and natural magic. Magic was only preserved through the New Religion, and those who practiced the New Religion became witches and wizards. The lot of them went into hiding and created their own society – the wizarding world.”

“In today’s day and age, magic is passed down through genetics. And sometimes, those with magic cores can be born to those with no magic at all. The population of magic users stays stable, and there is balance in the world of magic …” Chiron winced. “Mostly.”

“But these people have lost contact with the Triple Goddess. They no longer worship or prayer to her. They rely solely on their own magic, not what comes naturally from the land, like in the Old Religion. And recently, war has passed for them. The Second Wizarding War ended four months ago. And this has severely depleted their resources and magic. There is a school for the magic users, used as the stronghold during the war, and now the wizarding world’s hero is returning to finish his studies.”

“His moniker is ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ and he’s called Harry Potter. But he was only a child – is only a child. He and his peers are children who have been used to fight a war that they shouldn’t have had to fight.” Chiron looked very grim.

Percy bitterly sank back in his seat.

“We were kids, too.”

Chiron sighed. “This war has thrown the balance of magic out of whack. The natural magic has been depleted for too long, and there are those who are actively tipping the balance to sabotage the magic for their own gain. It’s suspected that the dark forces from the war – Death Eaters – are still operating in the shadows. It is because of this that the Triple Goddess has called upon you as heroes to help restore the wizarding world and save magic.”

“You would only be obligated to attend the school of Hogwarts until you uncovered the source of oppression over magic, so the Death Eaters can be caught and restrained. If you choose to accept, of course.”

Percy eyed him sharply. “You say that as if we have a choice.”

Chiron pursed his lips. “Despite what you think, yes, you do.”

“But this is from a whole other pantheon,” Nico said. “A group of magical people who don’t even believe in the goddess who brought about their magic. Why do we have to fix this?”

More silence.

Chiron looked down on them unapologetically.

Percy shifted uncomfortably, looking over at Annabeth. Chiron seriously expected them to just up and leave Camp for this quest. Barely a month had passed since their own war, and they were getting by as they were. Percy didn’t believe Camp Half-Blood could afford to lose any support or cabin counselors, even for a short period of time.

“So, let me get this straight,” Percy said. “Basically – if I just ignore the little prologue, you gave there – you want us to go to this magical school, on orders of a goddess that’s almost faded, stalk a kid, and watch out for people who like to try to rob the world of magic – magic, which they use themselves.”

Chiron looked pained. “No, I don’t believe they’re purposefully robbing the world of magic.”

“Oh, well that clears everything up.” Percy threw his hands in the air.

“Regardless, you understand what’s being asked. This is a quest, technically coming from Hecate, as a favour for the Triple Goddess. It’s valid as a hero’s quest. It was decided it would be best that you go undercover as transfer students and secretly watch over Harry Potter, the target for most Death Eaters. Your goal is to prevent trouble before it gets serious, though I doubt that will be hard, as trouble always manages to find you –”

“Wait, hold on,” Percy said, still hung-up on the quest. “How are we supposed to fit in at a school for the magically gifted? None of us are wizards.”

“Oh, that is something that can easily be fixed,” Chiron said, dismissing the problem.

“Excuse me?!” Thalia said.

“Hecate considered this quest from the Triple Goddess for a long time before coming to me.”

Percy rolled his eyes. Out of everyone in the room, he had the least faith in the gods. They never gave him anything to have faith in.

Annabeth narrowed her eyes at the camp director. “And how exactly does Hecate plan on ‘fixing’ the problem? I don’t see any obvious solutions. We’re demigods, not wizards.”

Chiron shifted awkwardly. “She has not shared that with me. I have only gotten the request that you undertake this quest for the Old Religion, and that she will visit to prepare you.”

Percy felt like grinding his teeth. “Oh, so she just expected us to accept the quest. She never considered us refusing? Why can’t the wizards fix their own problem?” Chiron said nothing. “Camp is still in shambles – we don’t even have all the cabins rebuilt yet! We can’t leave, not now. There’s still too much work to do here, and too many new demigods to watch over and protect. And have you even considered that maybe we don’t want to go on this quest? That maybe we want a break? My entire childhood was prophecy after prophecy, quest after quest, serving the gods. We’re under no obligation to do this. You can tell Hecate that she can stick her magic wands up –”

He didn’t get the chance to finish because Annabeth had already taken a ping pong paddle and smashed a ping pong ball in his direction, the mutual action used to keep order in camp counselor meetings.

“BALL!” Annabeth yelled, slamming her paddle across the table.

Percy scowled and took his seat again.

“Now, Percy,” she said sweetly, leaning over the table. “Where did you say Hecate could put those wands?”

“Nowhere,” he muttered.

Annabeth acquiesced and put the paddle down.

“Where is this school anyway?” Nico asked. He frowned. “And Hogwarts? What kind of name is that?”

“It resides in Scotland, its exact location unknown and hidden by powerful magic. Outside of the school, which is an ancient and famous monument for the wizarding world, there are other magical establishments. One place you will be required to visit is Diagon Alley, a wizarding market. That’s where you’ll collect your resources for going undercover at school.”

“Again, you’re saying all this like we’ve agreed to go,” Percy mumbled.

He was ignored. Thalia raised her hand, her features etched with confusion. “Okay, I hate to be the one to say it – but how are we supposed to blend in with wizards and witches? We can’t use magic, and we know nothing about their world.”

Chiron admitted he didn’t know how Hecate would find ways around the problems. “She has informed me that, only once the quest is accepted, will she come and discuss the details. In fact, she should be arriving any moment –”

What happened next could not have been anymore dramatic.

There was a blinding flash of light – the glow filling the entire room – and it forced the demigods to cover their eyes lest they go blind from laying eyes upon a god’s true form.

All eyes landed on the goddess, technically titaness.

Hecate appeared as a tall, thin woman. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a kekryphalos, the shining coil twisting and adorned with intricate gems and metals. Loose strands of hair framed her sickly pale face, which held sharp chartreuse yellow eyes. She wore a dark chiton robe that draped over her thin figure, and it seemed to ripple like a heat hallucination, like ink spilling off to the ground.

At her feet, she was accompanied by a black Labrador retriever and a polecat.

The demigods all stood as one and politely bowed, as was common for all gods. Percy glared up through his bow as he followed reluctantly.

“Rise, my young heroes.” The goddess’ voice was smooth and rich. She sounded monotone. “You have done more than enough to prove your worth to me, and for that, I know that I can trust you. I have called you four here on special request from the Triple Goddess, who has observed your acts of heroics. She believes you can save the wizarding world, her beloved kin, and magics.”

“You will use the ways of the Old Religion to learn magics and go undercover. As demigods, you already have magical cores. They just need to be trained; refined.”

Percy scowled.

“And will the oh-so-gracious Triple Goddess be visiting us herself?”

Annabeth shot him a scathing look.

“Percy!” She hissed.

Hecate eyed Percy again, as if reappraising him. “No,” she said, after a tense silence. “You will be sent to get your wands from one who still practices the Old Religion and can pair you with an appropriate wand. Your cover stories are fabricated and with the wandmaker. The Triple Goddess does not appear without dire need.”

“Her entire world being in trouble seems pretty dire to me,” Percy muttered under his breath.

Annabeth elbowed him harshly.

Hecate narrowed her eyes.

“This,” she said, pulling a laminated piece of paper out of thin air, “is called a portkey. It is an enchanted item; when touched by the intended people, or random persons, it can magically teleport you to a predetermined location.”

She held it out to demigods.

On it, in fancy letters, it read: Littletree Farms, Dorchester, Boston, Massachusetts.

“Touch this, all at once, and you will have accepted the quest.”

Chiron gave them an encouraging nod. The demigods all shared exchanged looks.

“Our responsibilities …” Thalia started, subconsciously reaching up to grab at her lieutenant circlet, from the Hunters of Artemis.

“Will be forgiven for the time while on quest,” Hecate assured. “The Triple Goddess does not ask favours lightly. This has the potential to spill into the real world; to affect our pantheon. The Old Religion is younger than the Greek pantheon, but its reach goes far and wide. The Triple Goddess is powerful; no harm will befall your precious little Camp while you are away.”

Nico hesitated, but was the first to reach for the paper. “If this is really that important … why ask for us specifically? A larger group, organized and planned, could do better.”

“The Triple Goddess has observed you, and believes you are the right heroes to help save magic.”

“But right now? This instant? Can’t we have time?”

“You will come back to your little Camp before you leave for Europe.”

Annabeth pursed her lips, then also reached for it. “Okay.”

Percy looked at her, askance. “Okay? Just like that?”

Annabeth shrugged. “A quest is a quest, and someone needs help. We are in peace right now and have no threats. I don’t see why not.”

“Fine,” Percy said, tone short. He looked over at the laminated paper. “So, this will take us where? What’s in Boston that could be so magical?”

“A wand wood farm,” Hecate said, smiling thinly. “And your quest starts now.”

Percy’s eyes snapped to the paper, where Hecate had pushed it into their collective hands unwillingly. Then the world began to spin, and there was a sharp tug in his gut, yanking him out of time and space.

*

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

18. Skeleton

Buddy and Sammy find the “goldfish room” as the latter calls it, AKA the closet where Joey keeps his skeletons, literally. And in the process, Buddy learns about a few of the skeletons in Sammy’s metaphorical closet. (Set during ink hell, pre loop, post Buddy befriending the lost ones/searchers.)

The Prophet was a strange ally.

It was weird to work alongside someone who worships the guy who tore you in half and is the biggest reason why you’re stuck in a nightmarish, inescapable studio, especially when it wasn’t the nicest or friendliest person before getting claimed by the ink. (Although, as he thought back on it, had he ever met Sammy before it was claimed by the Ink?)

But ANY ally was better than an enemy, especially when that ally knows the studio better than anyone else down here. Besides, it seemed like the Ink man was either unaware of their past or didn’t even know who they used to be, and even if it did, it wasn’t angry about their past issues.

At the same time, working on scavenging trips with the former musician was a nightmare; it was way too tranquil about the situation, and there were too many weird murderous monsters that the wolf and gofer were aware of.

“I do not need to run, little wolf. I can evade these creatures without issue through my Lord’s gift.” The Prophet calmly stated as Buddy gestured confusion about why it didn’t run when the pair heard something that sounded suspiciously like the projectionist’s screams. “Besides, running through these halls is risky, I would be heard by those… more unsavory denizens of this studio and get ambushed by them.”

He wished his typewriter was quieter in instances like this, being able to type out ‘But what if you get caught by your lord?’ and other messages to hand to him without risking alerting the Ink Demon would be great. Or just having his voice back in general.

“If my Lord decides to send me back to the puddles, then it is his right to do so to prove I have changed.” He answered the unspoken question. “But it does mean that I have to work harder to get him to notice how much I have improved, get him to notice me…” 

‘Please don’t read my mind unless I give you the “go for it” gesture. It’s creepy otherwise.’

“My apologies, little wolf, while your thoughts come in quieter than everybody else’s… they’re still noticeable, especially when it’s just the two of us.”

Buddy hesitantly nodded and just tried to lead the Prophet out of the ransacked room to look for more stray supplies.

A few more hours of searching lead the pair to a locked room, something that experience told him meant that either it was another dead end or a hidden treasure trove of supplies, and not wanting to go back to the safe house empty handed, he was ready to roll those dice.

Buddy gestured for the Prophet to stand guard as he picked the door’s lock, and as the door slowly creaked open, he was thankful that he couldn’t speak because the scream that came out from his mouth would’ve been loud enough to alert every monster in the studio.

The former gofer felt sick to his stomach when he saw them. Piles upon piles of rotting, mangled, corpses. Human Corpses, not toony corpses like the other Borises or the butchered up members of the Butcher gang. Most of them were unrecognizable, partly because he had never seen most of these people in his life, and partly because they had decayed so much that what remained was hard to figure out who was who and what. The oldest corpses were nothing but skeletons and clothes, and the freshest one looked like…

...Like his own body.

“The goldfish room...” The prophet muttered loud enough for Buddy to hear, startling the poor pup out of his skin as he didn’t hear him enter behind him.

The wolf shuddered and continued to scour the room for anything worth the hassle of all of this. Boris wanted to take a few of the bones, which Buddy unenthusiastically obliged.

“Don’t eat those!” The Prophet interjected so loudly and harshly that it startled both the former gofer and the wolf toon. The ink creature’s anger was so much scarier with how rare it was to see now. “Especially not him! He’s my-” The Prophet stopped itself by covering its ‘mouth’ with its hands as if it was about to reveal a big secret and just took the skeletal arm out of Buddy’s hands and put it back where he found it. Its voice went back to it’s normal calm tone that reminded him of someone who was on the verge of falling asleep, but Buddy heard somberness in the musician’s pitch. “...they’re unclean...”

‘Prophet?’ Buddy gave him the “go ahead, read my mind” gesture. ‘Prophet, what is this place? Who are these people?’

“...You’ve seen your own corpse among them, correct?”

Buddy nodded.

“I know you’ve met Joey, but tell me; ...Has he ever called you ‘Henry’ before?”

‘Yes he has, but what does that have to do with…’ he gestured at the bodies on the floor ‘this?!’

“Henry’s been gone for a long time now.” The prophet stated, but there was a hint of recollection in his tone that weakened the calmness, and the more he talked, the more broken (for lack of a better term) his voice became. “Do you think that you were Joey’s first replacement goldfish? That after Henry left the studio, you were Joey’s only other other Henry?”

Buddy’s ears began ringing and he heard music; it was loud, distorted, fast-paced, and all over the place, the type of music that makes your heart pound out of your chest and makes your hackles stand up, the type of music that tells you to run, but doesn’t clue you in to where or why. The prophet’s body started to shake and tremble.

“The first Other-Henry was actually named Henry as well. And like his predecessor, was an excellent artist who really connected with the characters...”

‘Sammy? What’s going on? do you hear this too?!’

“But unlike Stein, Ross was a very stubborn person who refused to let anyone push him around, especially by either Joey or myself. Surprisingly, I liked that man, but he didn’t last long...”

Fear kept Buddy’s legs frozen to the ground as he covered his ears in a fruitless attempt to muffle the music, it felt like it was being played directly in his head, and then it clicked when the whispers started up, whispers in their tone, but not in volume, they were loud enough to drown out parts of what the Prophet was saying;

‘Sammy help us!’

“The next one was more like you, a younger, less experienced and more skittish person, his first name was ‘Lawrence’ so everyone called him ‘Larry’ to avoid confusion...”

‘Sammy, where are you?’

“...But he was also too nosy for that poor boy’s own good.”

‘you’re too weak!’

“The one after that was a scatterbrained fellow, very passionate about his work but didn’t focus very much on one topic or another...”

The Prophet’s monologue was completely drowned out by the music and chorus of desperate and angry “Other Henries” at this point. Buddy knew he was still talking because of the musician’s gestures, but didn’t hear a single word out of him. 

‘Saaaaaammyyyyyyy....’ ‘You’re such a spineless coward...’ ‘Sammy please save us..!’ ‘Why did you let Joey kill us?’ ‘The ink... it’s so cold...’ ‘No wonder Susie hates you so much...’ ‘Sammy, please! It hurts!’ ‘Why did you let us die?’ ‘Why won’t you help us?’ ‘You’re no better than Joey.’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘I thought you loved me...’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘You promised me that you’d always be there!’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘They were right about you...’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘Saaaaaammyyyyyyy....’

He knew that the lost ones, searchers and Prophet could hear each others’ thoughts, but didn’t understand what that was like until now that he was hearing Sammy’s thoughts. No wonder most of them were always so depressed and on edge...

‘Sammy?’ the gofer shook Sammy gently, only to hear his own voice join the chorus of other Henries as one of the ones who sounded like he was mad at him. ‘Sammy, snap out of it!’ he shook the Prophet harder, still not waking the Ink creature out of its trance. ‘SAMMY!’ Doing the first thing that came to mind out of desperation, Buddy slapped the mask clean off of it.

The music and voices died as if they were a candle light snuffed out by the wind.

For a few seconds that felt more like hours, Buddy and Sammy stared at each other in silence before Sammy put its mask back on as if nothing happened and led the toon wolf out of the goldfish room, took a key out of its pocket and locked it behind them.

-----

Back in the safe house, Buddy started up a pot of bacon soup, the stuff tasted a little bit better when it was hot while Sammy tuned the banjo in the dining area and Dot tried to stir up conversation.

“So... how did the supply run go?”

“Fine.”

Buddy involuntarily let out a snort as he took the soup off the stove and took out his typewriter.

[It was the scariest one we’ve ever done so far.

While looking around for stuff, we ended up in this place S The Prophet called ‘the Goldfish room’ and it was filled with dead bodies. HUMAN dead bodies. And mine was in the pile! I couldn’t tell if it was haunted or if it was just the prophet’s thoughts going]

“Little wolf, I do not wish to think about that room again...”

[Sorry.]

The wolf sheepishly put the typewriter to the side and poured the soup into bowls. As the toon and lost one ate, the prophet mostly just stared into his bowl as if he was watching something in it.

“...Before my enlightenment, I was not a good person.” The masked musician stated unprompted.

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t an evil person per say, and I wouldn’t go as far as to call the man I used to be a monster.” He sighed and adjusted his mask. “But I was certainly a bad person, an asshole, a coward who hid behind physical strength, and I had more vices than virtues.”

[Prophet, what are you talking about?]

“I’m trying to answer the questions I know you have before either of you two pester them out of me. Maybe when you’re sated my Lord will allow me to forget again.”

[Are you sure? you seemed really upset back ...there.]

“Well look at it this way, maybe getting it off your chest will help you feel better about it?”

“I suppose...” The prophet sighed again.

“So what does you being a crackhead before finding the Ink Demon Religion have to do with a room full of dead bodies?”

“Dorthy!”

“...I’ll just listen before asking anything else.”

“Thank you.” It readjusted its mask. “Now where was I...” it hummed to itself for a bit before speaking again, with venom slowly but surly pooling into its words. “I had more vices than virtues, and Joey could see all of both, using my virtues to his advantage, and using my vices against myself, he did everything he could to keep me from leaving him too, and it worked.”

The prophet took in a deep breath to stabilize itself.

“Every time I tried to leave, he did something else to make me stay; ‘I love you’s turned to gifts, gifts to false promises, false promises to threats, threats to blackmail, blackmail to going through with it, and when he felt me slipping through his fingers he turned to taking advantage of my addictions... That... monster was a parasite in all aspects except physically... And I didn’t even notice until I might as well have been a walking corpse as I was seeing others march to my fate, but I couldn’t even so much as squeak out a warning without Joey swooping in on his behalf. Some Henries, heads of the art department, didn’t need to be warned by me as they found out what would await them and fled. But Joey didn’t like that... When I tried to warn the ones who needed to be warned, it was easy for him to dismiss me as a loon, a drunk, and an addict, until eventually I just gave up. I couldn’t even save myself, let alone anyone else... let alone the other art departments...”

“...I just stopped trying to keep Joey from leading the sheep to the slaughter, maybe they’re right to be angry at me for being such a coward...”

It then turned to face the wolf and put its hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve asked yourself if you’ve ever met me before the Ink had claimed me, as for that, I don’t know, nor do I think it matters, Buddy. I was nothing but a shallow and beaten husk of myself long before I even had tasted the ink. Even if you met me before then, you only met a ghost, not a person.”

The three then stayed in silence for a while before the clicks of Buddy’s typewriter caught the other two’s attention.

[Well, if it helps you any I think you’re not as bad of a person as you tell yourself you used to be.]

“And I don’t need to hear everyone’s thoughts to know that you’ve really stepped up to the plate when it counted. I don’t think a coward would try to do have the stuff you’re doing now.”

“Thanks you two” The Prophet’s voice cracked with emotion. “That... that really means a lot to me.”

[paversandplatters]

||𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙|| (2/20)

Apocalypse! Au (TW! Minor gore and cussing)

Reader x multiple

Chapter 2: The church

Y/n puts the vehicle in gear carefully making a U turn and starts down the road in a westerly direction. Her original plan was find refuge in one of the larger towns along North Florida’s citrus belt such as Lake City or Gainesville- still seems viable despite the fact that the engine continues to ping and complain- something has come loose during the plunge to the woods and she doesn't like the sound of it. They need to find a place to stop soon look under the hood, get their wounds looked at- rest maybe, maybe find some provisions and fuel.

“Hey look!” Nick speaks up from the shadows of the rear seats pointing off to the Southwest at the end of the lot.

Y/n drives another 100 yards or so and then brings the Escalade to a stop at the gravel shoulder. She kills the engine and silence crashes down on the car’s interior, it’s almost deafening. Nobody says anything at first- they just stare at the road sign in the middle of the distance. It's one of those cheap translucent white fiberglass ones, set on wheels with the big removal plastic letters still bearing the words “Calvary Baptist Church all welcome Sunday 9 -&- 11.”

Through the spindly Cypress trees and columns of pine that line the road, she can see the luminous white gravel of a deserted parking lot. The long narrow lot leads to the front of a building, it's broken stained glass windows partially boarded up. Its steeple caved in on one side and scorched as if its seen a bombing raid. She stares at the huge steel cross at the top of the steeple- which is covered with a patina of rust- has come loose from its moorings.

It now lays upside down dangling by the remains of its rotted hardware. She can't help but get very still while gazing up at the ruin upended cross, the symbolism isn't lost on her but it may only be the beginning. She never been one for religion but realizes that this may very well be a sign that they've been left behind and this is the rapture and the world is a purgatory now. They’ll have to deal with what remains like junkyard dogs or vermin stuck in a sinking ship.

“Remind me”she says almost under her breath not taking her eyes off the building in the distance one of the windows in the rear has a dull yellow incandescent glow, behind it the chimney is spewing a thin wisp of smoke into the lightning sky.

“how much ammunition did y'all manage to scavenge before we left Calhoun?” the two young men give each other a quick look

Nick speaks up “I have one of the 33 round mags for the Glock and a box of two dozen .380s for the other pistol and that's it..”

“That's more than I managed.” George grimaces “all I managed to grab ammunition wise is what was in the office which I think it's like 6 rounds, maybe 8?”She picks up her Glock from the seat counting the number of times she's fired since they left Calhoun she's got six rounds left.

“All right gentlemen ... I want you to bring all of it, all the hardware locked and loaded.” she opens the door “and look alive…”

The two men get out of the vehicle and join her in the Golden light of the dawn. Something is wrong, Nick notices His hand are shaking as he injects a fresh magazine into the hilt of his pistol

“Y/n, I don't understand” he says finally.

“what are we loading up for? I doubt there's anything in there but scared church people. What are we doing?”

But she's already started down towards the church- her Glock is gripped tightly in her hands, arms dangling at her side like a calling card.

“It's the end of the world boys there's no such thing as church anymore it's all up for grabs…”

The two young men glanced at each other for a moment before hurrying up to catch up with her. They approached the property from the rear, through the grove of sickly eucalyptus trees that mark the outer edges of the churches lot. She can smell the stench of menthol and ammonia in the air as she creeps across the weed whiskered gravel, careful not to make too much noise when her boots crunch under the stones. The light in the chapel's rear window has dwindled with the morning sun and the roaring of crickets fade now, the silence returns over making her heart throb in her ears.

She pauses behind a tree about 20 feet away from the lighted window ... With a few quick hand signals she rouses the two who are hiding behind a nearby oak. Nick moves out from behind cover carrying the pistol against his solar plexus like a vestigial appendage. George moves behind his friend wide eyed and jumpy flinching at the twinges of pain. These two are not exactly the crème de la crème in the world's new survivor class she realizes but perhaps she should see these young men as they truly are. Loyal partners, and friends- surviving all the same.

She issues another signal stabbing a finger at the rear of the building. One by one the three of them move toward the small woodside annex off the rear of the Chapel- she’s in the lead her pistol now gripped in both hands, now pointed downward. The closer they get the more the sun rises over the horizon the more they realize something isn't right. The windows of the building and rectory of the deacons quarters are lined with aluminum foil. The screen door has been ripped off its hinge and the inner door is nailed shut and crisscrossed with lumber. The stench of the dead permeates the air and gets stronger as they approach. She reaches the building first and she gently stands with her back against the boarded door signaling the others with a the tip of her finger to her lips.

They approach as quietly as possible, stepping lightly over the trash and dead leaves that are skidding across the back of the deck in the morning breeze. George stands just behind her, while Nick keeps to her side, both keeping weapons at the ready. She reaches down to her scuffed boot and pulls out a 12 inch Randall knife from the interlining. She carefully wedges the point under one of the boards near the door latch and Yanks.

The door probes stubborn. She pries at it repeatedly with the knife making more racket than she cares to but she has no choice they would make even more noise if they had tried to break through one of the windows. The nails give slightly the creaking sound amplified and the hushed daylight. She has no idea of what they're about to find inside this building but she fairly certain now that both humans as well as the dead inhabit this place.

Zombies don't build fires and the average survivor with the access to soap and water doesn't usually smell like death. The door finally gives and the two men moving closer to her, guns up now as they enter at the same time. They find themselves in an empty room illuminated by dim yellow light and the smell of stale smoke and Bo smacks them in the face. She crosses the floor, her boots making the floorboards creak. She makes note of the small potbelly stove still radiating the heat of the dying embers, the braided rug stained with blood, a desk littered with teabags, dishes, candy wrappers gossip magazines, a few empty 44 bottles and crumpled cigarette packs…

She goes over to the desk and looks down at the display of playing cards arranged in the classic poker pattern it looks like somebody, likely a hand full of people, were here only a moments ago and left in a hurry. A noise from behind the inner doors suddenly takes her attention. she whips her head around to the source, both men stand across the room gazing sheepishly back at their leader.

Again she puts a four finger to her lips giving them the signal to hush. The two mens eyes are aglow with nervous tension, on the other side of the door shuffling noises build, the telltale sound of dragging feet. There's also the reek of mortified flesh almost as pungent as the methane and it's getting stronger. She recognizes that a number of undead are trapped in an enclosed space. She turns and points to George’s shotgun.

Nick understands that he's supposed to blow the lock off the door and George is supposed to back them both up. Neither young man is very happy about this plan. Nick looks pale and George is drenched in sweat both of them nursing wounds and perhaps even internal bleeding. Neither seem gung ho about fighting off and undetermined number of biters. But she is an irresistible leader and the mere look in her eyes is enough to kill any dissension in the ranks. She holds three fingers up. She begins to countdown. 3, 2-

A loud crack sounds as a rotten hand covered with mold burst through the weak spot in the lumber.

Nothing in reality ever seems to play out the way George imagines it should. He trips on his backward shuffling feet and falls on to the floor. The pain in his ribs explode the injury jostled by the impact and at the same time another pair of hands thrust their way through the busted slats of the door. Looking up he sees she has pulled something from her boot. He watches as a dull gleam of a Buck knife strikes through the air. She drives the blade through the tissue and cartilage sawing through the bone it’s hands flopping to the floor as neatly as tree limbs being pruned.

George watches as he tries to sit up, the back of his throat burns and his body threatens to upchuck the paltry contents of a stomach. Things are moving quickly now, hands are flopping around him like fish on a boat’s deck, slowly growing still as the electrical impulses from the reanimated central nervous system drains out. George’s vision blurs his mind swimming dizziness gripping him as his wounded lungs labor to get air.

She's already scooped the fallen shotgun from the floor pumping shells into its breach with a single jerk of her arms as she turns back to the door George manage to get himself back up into a standing position kicking the ghastly hands out of the way . She slims a boot into the door and it implodes revealing the interior of a dark Chapel. Nick gets a fleeting glimpse of the sanctuary before the 1st blast shatters the tableau.

What was once a quaint little church with stain glass and pine pews now resembles an arbiter from the 9th circle of hell. The dead number in dozens maybe as many as 40 or 50 most of them chained to the pews with heavy chains. They react to the light of the outer room as if she had just turned over her oktan exposed a colony of vermin.

Insensate faces jerk towards the noise, some are decorated with spiked collars and others have large makeshift cage like muzzles. The scene gives a a sense of some sort of demented zoo or kennel for these reanimated cadavers. Stranger still, in that terrible instant before the first flash of the 12 gauge, it seems like somebody apparently tried to administer these beings after they were reanimated.

In front of each are dead birds morsels, pieces of roadkill or unidentified human remains are scattered in the pews next to each being. The candles still burn in the same sanctuary on the advert stands in the front room on the modest little altar. Somewhere the buzz of a live microphone drones. The air smells of modified sewage perfumed with rancid flesh and disinfected.

Nick gets one final glance at her before the air lights up- the look on her face is a mixture of sorrow, rage, loss and regret. It's the look of someone confronting the merciless abyss. Then the shooting starts.

The first blast flashes and takes the closest cadaver down in a puff of carnal tissue, the shell ripping through the skull and taking a chunk out of the wood above the door. Three subsequent shots happen, making their ears ring. Already covered with blowback her anguished face stippled and splattered, she now moves deeper into the Chapel and starts in on the others.

It only takes a few minutes, the air flashing like a fireworks display as she goes from pew to pew, either vaporizing skulls or thrusting her Randall knife through petrified nasal cavities before the things even get a chance to bite at the air. George staggers towards the open door to get a better view and he notices Nick just in the side Chapel entrance.

She has the strangest look on her face now as she finished off the last of the monsters with a hard quick slashes of the knife the gun has been emptied, 8 shells peppering the wall behind the heaps of moldering flesh. Completely slick with blood, her eyes burning with inscrutable emotions, she almost looks beatific as she dispatches with the last re animated corpse .

For one terrible moment watching this all from the doorway Nick thinks of a woman having an orgasm. She lets out a voluptuous sigh of relief as she impales the skull of what seems to be an elderly woman. The Crone sacks against the back of her Pew, she was once somebody's mother, somebody's neighbor. She may have once baked cookies for her grandchildren search for famous bread pudding add ice cream socials and laid to rest her beloved husbands of 47 years in the Cemetery out behind the rectory .

Y/n pauses to catch her breath staring down at the woman, head bowed for a moment, when all at once she abruptly stops and looks up narrowing her eyes. She cocks her head to one side and listens closely to something in another part of the building at last she fixes her gaze on George and so softly whispers

“do you hear that ?”

@the-wandering-pan-ace

[kadeu]

Accepted — Wainwright Rook

♣     Rook Wainwright aka Hyena looks like Colson Baker (musician/actor) ♣     He was born October 13th, 1966; making him 58 years old, but he appears 26 ♣     This Concubus is Bisexual and a King of Clubs ♣     He is a Tavern Owner and Resistance Informant

Biography

tw: child abandonment

 “I’ll keep a razor in my wraps to slit your throat at the gates.”

 Rook Wainwright was doomed to be a menace from the start. Memories not eroded by drugs or head trauma of his childhood are few and far between, but what he remembers in fleeting moments is the cold, the ache in his stomach as he struggled to keep himself fed, both on meager scraps of bread and small amounts of water, and the emotional stimuli of the world around him, drawn to anger and misery like a moth to a brilliant flame for his own survival. An orphan with no awareness of his true lineage, Rook knew only that one of his parents had been a concubus- and that if they had once lived in the slums of Club, they had long since left it, and him, behind. Little more than a child, Rook had no awareness of the concepts he’d fallen victim to, homelessness, abandonment- He knew only that he wanted to- no, needed to survive, and so, he fought tooth and nail to do just that.

 Club was unkind to him, brutal and lawless, but he found his comfort in a few kinder hands and hearts, a warm meal here and there, a mend on his dirty sweater or a hand me down coat to fight off the biting cold of the winter, and as he grew, he came to understand his position better- he was a one. Lowest of the lows, sooner to be spat on than offered a helping hand, but there were others, people who certainly looked just like him living lives a thousand times better. What made them different? Made them greater than Rook himself? What had they done to deserve their comfortable homes and three square meals? What had they done to sit in the warm glow of the taverns while Rook wasted away in the streets? He learned soon enough that they’d fought for those positions, tore their comfort from the teeth of their opposition, of their ‘greaters’- and had reaped the benefits. Now a teenager with a lithe, muscular frame, the young concubus was no whelp, and with nothing but a miserable excuse of a life to lose, he threw his hat into the ring of Club’s constant power struggles, practically gorging himself on anger and fear before each fight to grasp his single edge over those he faced: Head games.

 “The cuts won’t kill you, but hesitation just might. Don’t let him get in your head.”

 Oh, how Rook loved watching his opponents squirm, every little emotion, their trepidation, their concern, their fear of losing their status to some young upstart made him bloodthirsty. From the first unlucky two he’d challenged to a fight, his method rarely changed: shake them to their core, break their focus. He’d taunt them, infuriate them into making a foolish mistake- the only mistake he needed to put them down. Weaponless and unable to afford one, he chose instead to hone his fists, torn fabric wrapped around shards of glass and rusted nails to make each swing a more deadly hazard, cutting his own hands to pieces in every clash, wrists slick with blood each time he placed a foot on the neck of his fallen opponent. Each promotion was that one step closer to no longer living with the shameful gaze of those who thought he was nothing, something he had now come to loathe.  By 18, Rook was a three of clubs, and had garnered the respect of those beneath him, somewhat renowned for his uncharacteristic kindness to his fellow lowrankers, it was his own bread that he broke now for the Ones struggling to get by, he held no ill will toward those he’d stepped on to climb up- it was the way life worked, after all, and those he left alive always had Rook’s respect. At least, most of them.

 “...A Scavenger, you know that’s what you are, right? Scrappy little fucker picking fights you can’t finish?”

 Rook’s promotion to a seven was unintentional, at least, as unintentional as the boy could manage. Now in his early twenties, Rook had comfortably settled at his position as a five, a dagger strapped to his hip and several tattoos marking his arms denoting his history and previous wins, the closest thing to a journal that the illiterate concubus could maintain to remember his experiences over the years. He’d liked the position, respected by the lowrankers and rarely bothered by the face cards, and most importantly, able to feed his newfound thirst for the emotion of lust, he likely would have held his position for the rest of his life, no hunger to climb higher than somewhere he felt comfortable, if not for the fact he had gotten brave and made a move on a pretty Seven at the tavern, satisfied to simply be rejected for acting out of his position, to feed on the disgust and shock at his mere implication he might be worthy- what he got instead: was stabbed.

 The young man’s lover had seen the exchange, and not particularly pleased at the implication he could be replaced by a five of all things, had drawn his weapon and immediately challenged Rook. With no opportunity to prepare, and largely untrained with his own dagger, Rook was staggered, forced into fighting with a wound and a much more capable foe, his saving grace was liquor, their fight moving into the street before his competitor staggered on the steps, falling back just enough that he could close the distance. It was the same young man he’d flirted with who’d pulled him off, and it was the barmaid who tended to his wound that he celebrated with that night. He was a highranker now, and once more, that voice in the back of his head reminded him that he was still, in the eyes of some, unworthy- a fly to swat, a waste of air and turin. The drive that he had been able to abandon for so long had roared back to life, he would be antagonized no longer, made to look weak by those around him never again. And so, he trained.

 “Fights like a man possessed, I tell you. Doesn’t even use a weapon half the time.”

 His further climbing of ranks was slow going, but brutal. Unlike those he fought to ascend to Seven, he left none he fought for his next position alive, ten bodies of his fellows falling at his feet. He’d known what they thought of him, his promotion a fluke, that his rank never would have changed, if he hadn’t been aided by the mead coursing through the other Club. he proved them wrong over and over again, and as his rank ticked to eight, then nine, then ten, each one hard fought and won with fists more often than his weapons, his body became a network of ink and scars, each mark a new chapter in the story he’d committed to his flesh. By the time he challenged the position of King, Rook had come to be known as “Hyena,” a scavenger with a taste for blood and a brutality not to be underestimated. Now in his late thirties, Rook had stopped aging, and reached his full potential as a concubus, he fed like a king on lust and desire, low ranks and high alike charmed into his bed, honeyed words and drugs shared on wicked tongues in the dark, anger and fear fueling him in the ring. He had long played smart, his position of Jack taken from the hands of the foolish, the Queen rank choked out of a human who simply couldn’t withstand the physical onslaught- But his opponent for the position of King would offer him no such ease, a Strongarm with a history as bloodied as Rook’s own standing between him and his goals.

 “Concede. Concede and we both walk out of here Kings. It’s a fair trade, Rook.”

 Rook eventually stood over the bloodied body of the other King, planting his foot on the back of his neck with a primal howl, bones sore and broken, armor chipped and busted, but alive, alive and victorious. He was a King, standing now in the upper echelon of face cards with wounds that would eventually heal to show for it. He had proven with no uncertainty that he was no whelp, no refuse of the streets, and for the twenty years that followed- he would hold that position with a brutal efficiency. Rarely challenged for his title, Rook eventually ‘retired’ from his desperate climb for the top- and from his mercenary for hire work for extra coin. He settled on opening a tavern and working on learning how to read, the time not spent cleaning the bar spent reading and writing, practicing skills he never gave himself the peace to embrace as he was growing up. Still addicted to anything he could chew, smoke or drink, Rook’s tavern soon became a well known hideaway for those less… upstanding than most, an uncomfortable kind of peace formed in the awareness that the King running the place would sooner kill a troublemaker than huck them out on their ass. It was through the Tavern he became privy to, and eventually joined the Resistance, an ear to the ground in High Rank circles and many low ones given his position and occupation, Rook is an information broker, collecting and trading information to those who know how to stay on his good side. His hatred of being looked down upon eventually becoming a lust for true anarchy, no loyalty to Club or anyone but himself, for that matter. In Rook’s mind, there are two kinds of people, those worthy of and willing to work for  their survival, and those who are better off crushed beneath the cogs of change.

In Recent Years

Rook has maintained his position as the owner of the Thronebreaker Tavern, so called for one of his early nicknames. He continues to pass information between members of the resistance and operates within High Rank circles only to gather intel, otherwise preferring to be left to his life of excess. Infrequently called to defend his position as a King, Rook has no interest in becoming the Ace of Clubs, and is satisfied to hold his place under a fellow member of the resistance, but he maintains his training regime, and is well known for his brutal removal of those who break the peace of his tavern for anything other than a fight for rank. His addiction to Chrono when he was younger has caused damage to his mind, making him quick to anger and difficult to predict in recent years, and while no longer using it specifically, he still partakes in most other drugs, usually while running the Tavern itself. His taste for anarchy continues to grow, and he’s reveled in the recent attacks performed by those in the resistance, the fear and uncertainty more than enough to sustain him and the general promise of more to come exciting to the concubus.

Personality

Rook has never had any love for the rank system, he climbed it simply because he had to, used it to get where he wanted to be, and treats those around him with that thought process in mind, the gangs and ranks mean nothing to him, a Spade One is as respected as a Heart Ace in his eyes, so long as they respect him in return. Those who are unfamiliar with his past find him generally polite and jovial, a bartender with hundreds of stories and a proclivity for offering drinks on the house if the patron’s got a story to share in return, an imposing man with a heart of gold, at least on the surface. Those with a familiarity with Rook know that his kindness is as much of a play for power as his climb toward King was, that he’s a cunning, calculated sort who never acts without thinking twelve steps ahead, and that telling him too much could get you in the sights of someone you don’t want looking in on you. While often calm and measured, Rook is not above his anger, and often allows it to overtake him with little warning, though if this is because of his drug addictions or his history is up for debate.

  A horrendous flirt with a winning smile and a silver tongue, Rook’s truest vice is in the sins of the flesh, willing to trade more than a few things for a rendezvous in his bedroom, he isn’t picky about who he throws his chips in with, a behavior that’s gotten him in trouble before, and earned him an even more distasteful gaze than even his species has. Despite this, he’s warm and inviting, and keeps his friends close, loyal to the death to those willing to risk a friendship with the Hyena.

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[kitkat1003]

Who Are You Really?

Spirit Masterpost (Ao3 link there)

Chapter 2: Find A Way In

Summary: This town's got quite the cast of characters

Spirit spends the next couple of months on reconnaissance.  They hop over rooftops and monitor the town where the supposed successor lives.  They hadn’t had the time to ask for a description after getting their orders from the Demon Bull Family, and they’re afraid to go back to the trio with their query.

Something about that home is broken. Spirit has spent enough time in a broken home to know it’s not a nice place to be in for long.  Best to stay away unless they’re needed.

The town that the successor lives in is pretty lively. They only assume this is where the successor lives, though, because the successor had arrived to fight Demon Bull King rather quickly and would likely need to be close by.

They watch the city from the rooftops.  Bright colors, people, loud noises—they would hate to be down there, lost in the madness, but from a far enough distance it’s tolerable.

The people are so...loud.  There’s so much stuff here.  So many things, sights, sounds.  It’s awful pretty, especially the glowing stuff.  Spirit tries touching it, but it’s really hot. Whatever it is, it burns.

They’re sitting on top of a skyscraper, taking a break with some cheese tea they got because they were curious about it, when the sky shifts.  The weather begins changing without reason.  That gets them to jump down, because it sounds like a storm is brewing and the higher up you are the more likely you are to be hit by lightning.  Getting hit by lightning does not sound appealing.

They duck down into an alleyway, shifting into human form just as Red comes onto the myriad screens all over the city.  

Spirit has to give him credit, it’s certainly a foreboding speech.  They don’t do well when giving speeches.  Often when they’re sent to intimidate or kill they either write up a script on their way there or stay silent.  Whichever is more effective, anyway.

They lean against the wall as mortals panic, pulling out their nifty little phone.  It’s sturdy, which is good, since they can be a bit clumsy with their things.

‘Red’ They type out.  They gave him their number when they got a phone, excited to have one.  He’d texted them a lot of boxes.  They don’t know what the boxes mean, but they hope they’re nice.

‘I heard your speech up on the screens!  It was very articulate and polite, and threatening!  I think your dad will be mighty impressed with you.

Do you need my assistance?  Please let me know.  I’m in the area, so I can come quickly!

From,

Spirit’

They rock back and forth on their feet, turning their head to the side and watching as the mortals all vanish into their buildings, the streets becoming empty in minutes.  Spirit has to admire the speed of it.  Maybe they got more vigilant after the attack by Demon Bull King.  It’s only been a few months since the attack, long enough to set in some sense of safety but short enough that they would still be on edge.  Spirit knows the timeline of overcoming traumatic experiences.  They start to fade out of the forefront after about half a year if you’re lucky.

Their phone buzzes.  It’s from Red!

They blink at the deluge of boxes, using the little arrow buttons on their phone to scroll down.

‘i don’t need anyone!  Thnx for the compliment’

Spirit blinks a few times, and shrugs.  Red never is very eloquent in text form, and they’ve heard that brevity is the soul of wit!  Whatever that means.  Spirit isn’t quite sure.  Plus, they can understand the desire to do everything by yourself, especially when you’re doing something to prove yourself to someone.

Since the town is pretty much deserted, Spirit takes the time to walk around, get to know the place.  They know it plenty from a bird’s eye view, but whenever you scope out a territory it’s best to know all the angles.  They trace the different side streets with their eyes and memorize the street signs.  They might make a diagram, to make sure the layout sticks in their head.

They’re pretty calm, until they feel the ever ethereal power that comes only from one source.

The Monkey King.

Something like primal terror freezes them in place for a split second, before they race away running as far away from the outpouring of heavenly power that comes with the Monkey King’s presence.  They can’t even think about where they’re going, feet pressing hard against the messy street pavement. T, crunching on glass and debris without thought because they just need to get away.  They know who Monkey King is. They know that they would mean nothing to such a monarch, to such a being.  They have no favors to spare, nothing to keep themself safe, so why wouldn’t he jump on the chance to get rid of them?

Considering their reputation, considering the times they’ve colluded with Monkey King’s enemies, there’s no reason to believe he’d let them live, if he saw them.  No reason to think that he wouldn’t leave them a bloody stain on the pavement the moment they appeared in his line of sight.

Or worse, he’ll \tear out an eye for your insolence.  He clearly doesn’t have a problem pulling out organs, from what you’ve heard in the stories, and with what he did to Macaque?  He’ll ruin you.  Well, at least you’d finally have a normal amount of eyes, right? 

Their breaths come in short bursts.  They climb up to the roof of a short building, curled into a little ball, and shut their eyes.

They don’t manage a single normal breath until they feel the energy of the Monkey King fade out.  He must have left, back to his mountain.  Good.  That means they won’t die today, which really is something!  Every day they manage to live is kind of a surprise, really.  They’re consistently shocked by their ability to keep going.

They carefully sit up and glance down at their feet.  Bleeding, apparently.  Not a surprise, given how they weren’t careful when sprinting through the street, but annoying nonetheless.  They pull out the pieces of glass, clean off the wound with some antibiotic ointment they keep on them at all times (Mom used to make it herself with stuff they scavenged in the forest, and now you can buy an even better version in the store for cheap), and wrap their feet in gauze.

Once that’s done, they lay back, spread eagle on the roof, staring up at the cloudy sky as they try to regulate their breaths.  They’re not exactly steady yet, but at least now they can breathe.  Soon, though, the sky clears, and Spirit has to squint to keep the sun from burning their retinas.  Their phone buzzes in their pocket, and they pull it out, holding it up so the shadow of it falls over their face, blocking the sun a little.

‘The garbage noodle boy will pay!’

They type out a reply.

‘Red.

I don’t know who the noodle boy is, but I’m sorry he made you upset.  Did you have to leave the weather tower?  Do you need anything?

Let me know!

Spirit.’

They get a bunch of boxes and a very hard to follow explanation, but eventually they parse it out.  Noodle boy is the nickname Red has for Monkey King’s successor, and apparently he came in and kicked Red out of the weather tower.  

Spirit asks if Red needs help with his next scheme, but Red declines.  That’s fine.

Spirit knows when they aren’t wanted.

As the sky clears, people begin to peer out their windows, and a few brave souls actually leave their homes.  Within an hour, the city is back to its bustling state, if a little slow as it tries to reset from the panic.  Spirit watches this happens with a fascination one would have with watching ants build a colony.  Well, not in the sense that mortals are just like ants, but they are simple in many ways and complicated in others.  Peril is unknown to them in a way Spirit never could understand, and to see them grapple with the appearance of it and work it into their community and lives is ever fascinating.  Mortals are very tight knit, after all.  Everything affects the collective.

Demons are typically solitary creatures.  They create small clans, sure, but they do not settle, create towns for themselves.

Spirit flits between the different factions and never settles themself.  They have a few caves that could become homes, if they stayed, but they never do.  Not when there are favors to hand out, places to explore.  Besides, an empty home isn’t a fun one to return to.

They’re about to head out, disappear into the forest areas outside of the town for the night, but the roof door to the building opens.

“Hey,” comes a gruff voice.

Spirit freezes.  They turn their head around, slowly, eyes wide.

The figure that stands before them is a stout pig demon, wearing what appears to be a chef’s coat.  He’s got stubble, sharp blue eyes, and small tusks that peek out over his upper lip.  He stares at them without animosity.  Mostly interest and confusion.

Spirit, at a glance, suspects that they’d be able to take him, should he attack.  A second glance, more a read of a soul, proves otherwise.  Whoever this is, there’s a power they’re hiding.  A lot of power.

“Don’t see a lot of monkeys around here,” The demon says.

“Sorry,” Spirit replies, immediately.  “I-uh-I didn’t know this was your roof, I was just sitting up here for the view-I-I’m leaving, so—”

They don’t want to get in a fight.  There’s no point in trying to throw on glamour, appearing human.  And they don’t know how to really explain themselves, either.

The demon raises his hands in a peaceful gesture, trying to put Spirit at ease.  It doesn’t exactly work, considering it reveals the demon’s claws.  Dull as they are, Spirit is sure he knows how to use them.  But they do recognize the sentiment.

“Hey, hey, no need to apologise, ‘s long as you’re not causing trouble,” he gives them a sort of half grin.  “Just figured I’d see what you were up ta, if you were alright.  Not often I find anyone hiding on a roof for a good reason.”

Spirit stares.  They don’t exactly know how to react in this situation, so they just.  Don’t.  Their tail curls around one leg and they wish they could just.  Run.  But then he might chase them.  That wouldn’t be good at all.

“Uh.”  He scratches the back of his neck, seemingly uncomfortable with the silence.  “I’m Pigsy.”

How...appropriate?  Spirit fights a giggle, because of course his name is Pigsy, what else could it be?  The smile worms its way onto their face anyway, and their ears twitch as they look anywhere but at Pigsy.

Pigsy smiles back and chuckles a little.

“Yeah, I know it’s kind of on the nose.  Not my first choice of a name, but apparently it’s everyone else’s,” he snorts.

This time, Spirit does giggle, their nose crinkling with the motion as their smile reaches their eyes.  They relax a little.  If Pigsy is at ease enough to joke, it’ll probably be okay.  They’ll probably be okay.

“You, uh, mind telling me your name?” Pigsy asks them, and they freeze again, suddenly shy.

They fidget, then sigh.  It would be rude to not tell him, even though they wanted to keep a low profile, but Pigsy is asking nicely, and he doesn’t seem mean.  What’s the harm?

“Spirit,” they reply.

With a wave, they leap across the space of the street between the two buildings, sliding down the back side of the building.  It’s easy enough to slip into human form and disappear into the crowds towards the outskirts of the city.

They sleep leaning against a tree.  It isn’t terribly comfortable, but Spirit is used to that.

The next month is spent really getting to know the town.  It’s a huge place, and Spirit wants to be aware of every nook and cranny, just in case.  They’re a bit on edge, too, because Monkey King was here, which means he’s unafraid to come back.  If they’re around when he does, that wouldn’t be good.

But if they know all the secret passageways, just maybe, they’ll be able to outrun him.  From what they hear, the Monkey King cares about mortals, so he’d probably try and mitigate collateral.  If they disappear into a crowd, or get underground, they’d likely escape.

They have plans.  They make them whenever they stop on a skyscraper and let the wind blow through their fur, when they look down at the steep drop and think about catching a hand over a thousand years ago, when they think about every step to the present.  They have a plan for every street corner and alleyway, should they be caught.  They have to.  It’s the only way to survive.

Their plans come to a halt when they feel a soul split.  Well, not split, because that’s not possible, but at the very, least spread out.  All kept together by a thin, golden tether that ties them to their source.  

It starts as just one tether.  Then two.  Three, seven, fifteen, thirty-eight, a hundred—Spirit goes dizzy trying to count them all, up on the tallest building in the town.  The weather tower’s roof basically has seats built into its design, if you push a window open and sit on the glass tile, so it’s fun to climb on top of it.

Eventually, they have to see what is happening, because the city is dancing with golden lights scattered across it, and it’s making Spirit dizzy.

A group of tethers coalesces in a single building, an anti gravity arcade.  Spirit hasn’t gone in, because they like when their feet stick to the ground, and the amount of noise and bright lights is enough to leave them dizzy for decades.  They hop to the roof of it, peering over the ledge to see just who is inside.

“Monkey King?”

Spirit whirls around, and comes face to face with a mortal, wearing a bright orange jacket, red pants, a white shirt with a target on the chest (which, not that Spirit would say, is a bit odd, and is asking for a chest injury), and a red headband.

Then, an identical copy of that mortal appears.  Then another.

Suddenly, Spirit is surrounded.

“Uh,” they start.  “No?”

Regardless of their valiant effort to make it known that they are not the Monkey King, they’re dogpiled quickly, grabbed by tens of hands and carried into the sensory hell that is the anti-gravity arcade.

Considering they’re not being hurt, and considering they can’t move their arms, Spirit doesn’t struggle much.  They just shut their eyes, coiling their tail around their leg and staying as limp as possible.  Resistance seems a bit futile, and if they’re malleable instead of stiff they’re less likely to be damaged during their, uh, transport.

“I’m really not the Monkey King,” they try again, though their voice gets muffled by the many, many figures holding them.

The group stops.  There’s a buzz of chatter before one voice cuts out above everything.

“Alright, alright, what’s the haps?  What’s got y’all making me step away from the porty?” The voice has a very casual lilt to it, but it’s recognizable as the same voice of all the other mortals.

“We found the Monkey King!” One of the clones pipes up.

“You what?!”

“We got him, boss!”

“You—okay, okay, lemme see!  Drop him!”

Spirit is dropped onto the ground unceremoniously, and the crowd parts so they can look up to  this supposed leader.

He looks like the rest of the group, but his orange jacket is tied around his waist and his shirt doesn’t have the target on it the rest of them do.  He’s got his pants bunched up at the base of his boots, blue headphones hanging off his neck, and when he glances down at them, Spirit sees a flash of a sharp tooth poking up over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” they say.  “I’m, uh, not the Monkey King.”

The ringleader groans, leaning his head back.

“Of course you’re not,” he says, though the tone doesn’t indicate that he’s angry at them, which is nice.  He turns to the group standing behind Spirit, and glares.  “C’mon, boys!  I told ya if you saw the Monkey King, you report back to me.  No goin’ after him, no makin’ a fuss.  If this was the real deal, he’d’ve had you poofed quick!  The Boss might not know how to make us go away yet, but the King definitely does.”

He gives a quick, cursory glance over the group.

“We lose anyone?” he asks.

The group shakes their heads.

“Good.  Now, next time, listen to me!” he shouts.  

Spirit flinches at the sound.

The group, thoroughly chastised, all mumble apologies.  The leader sighs.

“Alright, alright.  Half of you keep on look out, and the rest of you go and play.  We got the arcade to ourselves, after all,” he waves them off, and they scatter.

Once they’re gone, he turns to Spirit.  Spirit stiffens and very carefully picks themself up.

“Sorry ‘bout them,” The leader says.  “They’re not the brightest bunch, and any monkey demon is gonna get them excited.  I told them to look out for the Monkey King, not kidnap him, but you spread one brain cell thin enough and things are bound ta’ get lost in translation.

Spirit glances around.  They look to be backstage somewhere.  The hum of pounding bass is muffled, but they can still hear the music.  There are no flashing lights, which is nice.

“Haven’t seen or heard of ya’, though.” The leader speaks up again, drawing back Spirit’s attention.  “What’s your name?”

“Spirit,” Spirit replies.  “And, um, it’s okay.  They weren’t very rough handling me, so it was fine.  

“Um,” They can tell the leader isn’t an original, they can see the tether, but they have to ask.  “You’re, uh, like them, right?”

The leader shrugs.

“If by ‘like them’ you mean a clone?  Sure,” he leans in close toward them.  “But, uh, keep that on the DL, you know?  Don’t want it gettin’ spread around.”

Spirit blinks a few times.  So, clones.  That isn’t surprising.  Macaque can make clones from his shadows, and he told them that Monkey King can make clones out of hair.  The successor must have inherited that power.

The thing that does confuse them, is

“DL?” they ask.

The leader raises a brow.  “The down low?”

“Uh…” Spirit fidgets and glances at their feet. 

The lingo makes no sense.  Is it a new thing?  They’re really bad at keeping up with trends and dialogues.  Their ears burn with embarrassment.  They must look really stupid.

“Just don’t go tellin’ nobody, alright?” The leader clarifies.

Spirit nods.

“Okay!  But, uh, why are you hiding?” It doesn’t seem to make sense.  If the successor made the clones, why do they feel the need to run from him?

“Cuz the Boss made us, made us do a bunch of his dirty work, and I don’t think he’s gonna like that we got tired of it.” The leader glares out toward where Spirit assumes the rest of the arcade is.  “Free will ain’t something clones are supposed to have.  I’m a little more, uh, on the wild side.  The rest of the boys are pretty simple, so I keep ‘em close so they don’t get into trouble.  And hey,” He smiles, all sharp teeth. “Can’t have a porty if you don’t got a roaring crowd.”

Well then.  That certainly changes things.  Spirit has never wondered about the sentience of clones, considering they’ve never interacted with them for long.  Macaque’s shadow clones are more extensions of himself than they are sentient creatures, and they never talk.  But, if clones really do become sentient, it’s a rather cruel thing to strip that sentience away, right?  So long as they aren’t hurting anyone, anyway.

“That’s fair,” they shrug.  “But, um, if you want to really stand out, maybe some new clothes will help?”

“That a fit check?” The leader smirks.

“A what?”

“Nevermind,” The leader waves a hand.  “What you got in mind?”

Spirit tilts their head to the side in thought.

“I think, um...your aesthetic,” they start.  “It doesn’t fit with, uh, the others, so I could get you some new clothes.  Accessories.  As a favor?” They shrug, a bit self conscious.

The leader is pretty confident, and Spirit is decidedly not.  It’s awkward to think that they could be of service.

A blade has a use, but if you have claws that are just as sharp, why buy the tool?

The leader considers this, and then shrugs.

“Sounds good, 3 eyes,” he agrees. 

Spirit blinks.  “It’s Spirit,” they clarify.

“Sure.” The leader shrugs them off.  “Exit’s down the hall to your right.”

Spirit nods and dashes off.  Slipping into human form is easy as a new set of clothes, though they always have to be wary of their tail, wrapping it around their waist like a belt so as not to arise suspicion.

Sure, demons live in this town, but the ratio seems 10:1 and Spirit prefers to blend in.  Besides, if they get mistaken for Monkey King again, they might just scream, if only to startle the crowd so they can get away.

They flit between stores, looking for something fitting for a character like that clone had been.  Spirit isn’t good at fashion, Macaque picked out their outfit after all, but they do have several eyes for flashy things (two, the third isn’t as entranced by such things).  They grab a pair of visor glasses, pink to accent the blue.  They have these weird lines through them, probably to see through.  Spirit thinks they’d be mighty useful to counteract all the bright lights.  

Then they look for something orange to replace the jacket, since it seems to be a fixture on all the other clones.  They find a kind of garish orange tiger print coat.  It’s pretty wild, and, well, the leader said he was pretty wild.  They toss it over their shoulder and head back toward the arcade.

They come in the same back way, because anything to spare themselves the sensory overload of the arcade is worth it, though they feel eyes from all around watching them as they approach the backstage.

Two large bouncers step in front of Spirit, as they approach the backstage, and Spirit nearly trips and falls in their haste to back away.  They’ve never been a fan of looming figures, and even though they’d probably be the same height as the bouncers if they stood up straight, they’re far too used to hunching down to do anything else.

“U-um,” they manage a whisper, clearing their throat before they continue, trying to speak up above the din of the music blaring in the other room.  “I-uh-I-the boss, uh, wanted me to get him some clothes, so…”

They hold up the items they found as proof, giving the two bouncers a shaky smile.

The two share a look, before one walks toward the stage, leaning down for a moment to talk to someone before straightening back up.

“3 eyes!” 

Spirit fights the urge to wince at the nickname, because they don’t like that they only have three eyes, they don’t like the reminder.  Instead, they sigh and smile awkwardly, waving as the leader saunters over.

“Hello,” they show off their pickings.  “I thought these would fit.  Since, uh, neon pink and blue go well together, and, um, I thought this jacket could, uh—”

“It’s way better than the old one!” The leader snatches both items out of Spirit’s hand.

The shades go on his face quick, and he tosses his old jacket so fast it’s a blur as it hits the wall.  He slides the new one onto his shoulders and leans back, hands in his pockets.

“Do I look good?” he asks, then continues without waiting for an answer.  “Nevermind, course I do!  Look at me!”

“I am,” Spirit agrees with a half shrug.

“Nice work, 3 eyes!  The fit fits!” He chuckles, and did his teeth get even sharper in the half an hour or so Spirit has been gone?  They can’t tell.

He plays with the sleeves of the new coat, and glances down at his feet.

“Anyway, uh.” For a moment, he’s almost shy.  “Picked out a name for myself.  Figured keepin’ the old one made no sense and all.”

“Oh?” Spirit keeps their tone carefully neutral, tilting their head to the side.

“Yeah.  Porty.” Porty gives them a wry grin.  “If I say it weird, might as well be my brand, right?”

“Sure?” Brand?  Spirit thought a brand was when you put hot iron on something.  Macaque wanted them to do that to a cow he found, but they couldn’t.  It was too mean.

“Anyway,” Porty’s voice cuts through their confusion.  “I gotta get back to my DJ stand.  Wanna stay for the porty?”

Spirit lets out a nervous laugh.

“Oh, uh, no thank you,” they say, and when Porty frowns, they scramble to explain.  “Not that I don’t, uh, like parties-I—” Well, they’re no good at lying.  “I just have uh, really sensitive eyes and ears.  It would be too loud and bright for me,” Spirit lands on something truthful as they finish, giving Porty a hopeful smile.

Porty’s expression stays carefully neutral, before he bursts into a sharp toothed grin that stretches wide across his face.

“That’s fair, but don’t be a stranger, kay?  Us wild ones gotta stick together!” He nudges their arm.

Spirit thinks Porty is awfully nice and cool, but he talks in ways that make their head spin.

“Got it,” they reply in lieu of asking for clarification, and they disappear out the back door as the music swells again.

They write Porty’s favor into their book just as they start to see the tethers vanish.  One by one, like dying stars flickering out, they disappear.  Spirit watches, wide eyed, as each of over a hundred vanishes.

There's a pit in their stomach, as they think of the giggly, desperate for approval, mostly kind clones suddenly ceasing to exist.  Thinks of the many voices going silent.

Macaque would tell them that clones are a means to an end, a weapon to be discarded after use.  But the successor didn’t discard them after use, he used them and left them, abandoned them.  And now has the audacity to get rid of them when they’re becoming too sentient for his liking?

Spirit doesn’t know the circumstances.  It’s rude to judge a person over things Spirit doesn’t know the full story of.  But they didn’t hate the clones, and Porty, for all his faults, seemed to just want to make a good time for people.  Not the type of good time Spirit would enjoy, but they know others might.

Curled up on the roof of a skyscraper, they watch the lights disappear.  The arcade, a veritable lighthouse of stars, loses its many tethers in an instant.  The mass of light vanishes as if blown away by a gust of wind, until there’s only one left.

The final one, Spirit knows.  

It disappears like the rest.

They break into the arcade that night, and find the coat and glasses on the floor, abandoned.  The arcade is dark and there is broken glass all over the floor, but Spirit steps around it, eyes only for the coat and glasses.  The things they got for him.  To prove that he was more.

Now all that’s left.

They pick the two items up gently and bury them out in the woods.  Maybe Porty wasn’t a real person, maybe he was a means to an end that got out of hand, but Spirit can’t fault anyone who lets them do them a favor.  And besides, sometimes all that’s left of people are memories, and Spirit wants to remember.

They remember Mom, and they know they’re the only one who does.  They can carry that weight for the clones, too, if no one else will.

They get a call from the Long family a month or so after meeting the clone, and isn’t it funny how one of the most affluent, mystically inclined families lives just on the outskirts of the town that Demon Bull King was sealed in?  Spirit wonders if they settled here for that reason, perhaps guarding the staff that the Monkey King left behind, since Monkey King had left it there without any thought.

Spirit doesn’t hate anyone (their father doesn’t count, because they made sure he wasn’t anyone ever, just a memory in Spirit’s mind, forgotten by time as his body burned on its pyre) but they severely dislike the lack of responsibility Monkey King takes.  Not only did he seal away Demon Bull King (Spirit is aware that Demon Bull King was destroying villages and causing a stir, but Monkey King took Red away and what parent wouldn’t be angry?), but he didn’t even stick around to watch over his seal!  He just left it, like the staff alone would be the end-all.  

Spirit would be too anxious to ever leave something that could even possibly be broken.  Maybe they’re paranoid, but they would have at least stuck around, or left a guard, or something!

Honestly, it isn’t surprising that Red managed to break it, eventually.  

They arrive at the Long residence to a sight of a broken down door and demolished artifacts scattered across the entrance hallway.  They blink, three eyes darting around to try and drink everything in.

“Ah, Spirit,” Comes a prim voice.  

Spirit jumps, and turns to find a couple, dressed in green and gold, staring at them.  They’re dolled up, makeup and everything.  Spirit bows, polite.

“Hello,” They greet.  “You’re in need of a favor?”

“Yes,” the woman answers.  “Yesterday, there was an attack on our home by the Demon Bull Family.  Many priceless artifacts were destroyed in the process.  We would like you to salvage as much as you can from the wreck, and clean up the rest.”

So grunt work.  That’s fine.  Typically Spirit is called for that sort of thing, if there are secrets involved.  And when you have priceless artifacts, you don’t want just any random person handling them.  Spirit doesn’t think they’re terribly trustworthy, but if someone asks them to be, they can be.  Keeping their mouth shut is easy because people don’t usually come to them for conversation.

Macaque told them once that they were awfully chatty, but that was when they were younger.  They grew up.  They usually only talk to themselves now.

“Okie doke.” They nod, turning back to the wreckage.

This should take them a few days, if they pull a few all nighters.  They’re pretty bad at sleeping anyway, so at least this time it’ll be on purpose.

They pointedly don’t think about how they told the Demon Bull Family of the artifact that was here.  They pointedly don’t think about how the Demon Bull Family likely attacked this home for said artifact.  What people do with the information they give out is none of their business.  It’s not their fault.

Well.  It is.  Spirit isn’t stupid.  Actions have consequences.  A domino falls and starts a chain reaction.  Regardless of intent, the first domino is the issue.

And Spirit pushed the rest of the pieces down, so the aftermath is their fault.

They start with the biggest pieces of the wreckage, moving out broken stone and whatnot, so that salvaging the finer pieces will be easier.  They’d ask where they’re supposed to move the large pieces of stone, but the two mortals didn’t seem to like them, so they just bring it to the side of the house.  Out of sight for the moment.

They start collecting pieces of broken artifacts, sorting them into different piles for reconstruction later.  They cut their fingers a few times and decide to wrap up their hands in gauze to spare the rest of their fingers from mutilation.

While they’re doing that, someone comes up behind them.

“Hi!”

Spirit jumps a full foot in the air and stumbles to regain their footing, nearly slipping on the dusty tile before steadying.  The gauze not yet secured sticks haphazardly to their sleeves, and they fidget with it as they turn around fully to see who it is that interrupted them.

It looks to be a girl around their age—a little younger, they think.  She’s got the same fine makeup as the two adults who Spirit wagers are her parents, though hers is made less refined in application, instead more youthful and in the form of self expression.  Her green varsity jacket fits in line with her parent’s outfit, green and gold, but the rest of her outfit is a bright white only seen in the marble of the home’s interior.

And then there’s the dragon blade, strapped to her back.  She seems comfortable with it there, which leads them to believe she’s the new wielder.  Which certainly gives her presence weight.  

Spirit lowers themselves to appear non threatening and demure, and they wave, awkwardly, before continuing to affix the gauze to their hands.

“Hello,” they reply. 

“I’m Long Xiaojiao.” The girl bows politely in response.  “But you can call me Mei.”

“Mei,” Spirit repeats, getting used to the word on their tongue, getting over the confusion of someone actually coming up to talk to them when they’re on a job.  “I’m, uh, Spirit.”

“Nice to meet you!” She smiles sunnily up at them.

Spirit stands and fidgets, a little, trying to figure out how to respond.  They don’t know how to interact with people much.  Interacting with Red is easy, they’ve known him for centuries, but with new people, it’s hard.  They’re terribly awkward, and they’re a monkey demon with three eyes.  It isn’t as if they can have conversations with mortals without that becoming a factor.

In fact.

“You know, I haven’t seen a monkey demon before.  Do you know the Monkey King?” she asks.

Spirit winces.  “No,” They respond, quietly.  “He-uh-from what I hear, he’s kind of a recluse, and I don’t interact with many monkey demons,” Spirit shrugs, trying for a smile.

Mei doesn’t seem perturbed by their lack of knowledge, shrugging nonchalantly right back, and Spirit relaxes a fraction.  Like with Pigsy, Mei doesn’t seem to have many expectations on Spirit’s behavior, or requirements of knowledge and or ability.  So far, anyway.

Then again, that could be because they know not to expect anything from Spirit.  Spirit is well known in the demon world to be as worthless as they are useful, and Mei is from a powerful family that Spirit has done favors for before.  The two of them probably knew of Spirit already.  That’s why they’re good at knowing that Spirit knows pretty little.

“Yeah, that’s fair.  My friend MK’s met him, since he’s his successor, but from what I hear from MK, Monkey King doesn’t talk to a lot of people.” She drops the information down in front of Spirit as if it isn’t a bombshell.

Spirit blinks a few times, trying to process the information.  Huh.  So, this girl knows the successor.  Interesting.

“MK?” they ask, curious.

Information is important.  If they perform a favor for Mei, that might get them an in with the successor, which means they’ll have something against the Monkey King and then they can be safe.

“Yup!” Mei whips out her phone, dragon phone case and everything, and shoves the screen up at Spirit, bright light pressing up towards their eyes.

Hand reaching toward their face, reaching digging scraping pain—

Spirit’s back hits the wall.  They don’t remember backing up, just like they don’t remember their breaths picking up, nor do they remember starting to shake.  Eyes wide, they glance around, until they lock eyes with Mei, whose phone is still held up in the air near where their face used to be.

“Oh,” Spirit murmurs, ears rising up from their previously downturned position.  “Sorry.”

Mei drops her arm, brow furrowed in concern.

“I, uh,” Spirit scrambles to explain, because they don’t want her to tell her parents that they’re easily startled, that they’re not good enough, because that could ruin their reputation, that could stop the favor from being kept, it could ruin everything.  “I don’t like.  Things thrown at my face.  Without warning.”

“Oh,” Mei says, softly, gently, glancing at Spirit with something softer and kinder than pity.

“Sorry,” Spirit mutters again, standing up straight.  

They shuffle off, getting back to work at getting the many cracked artifacts off of the ground.  They don’t usually have visceral reactions like that around other people.  The last they can remember is when they were with Red.  He’d waved a hand too close and they’d jumped back.  He didn’t apologize, because Red hates admitting fault, but he did hover over them for a moment, as they regained their bearings.

Mei scuffs her boot on the tile, and then idles over.

“Nah, I get it,” she waves off the apology, though Spirit does question how she could possibly understand when they never told her why.  “Hey, do you have a phone?  I could send you the picture!”

Spirit turns to her, glancing down at the earnest smile on Mei’s face.

“I don’t know if my phone takes photos,” they reply, pulling out the brick of technology out of their pocket.

Mei’s face drops in shock at the sight of it, hands jumping up as if to snatch it from Spirit’s grip. They hand it to her instead, because Spirit can tell she wants to hold it, and Mei looks at it like one would the priceless artifacts shattered around the hall.

“This is...ancient,” she says, delicate, like she doesn’t want to insult them.  “It doesn’t even show emojis!”

“What’s an emoji?” Spirit asks.

Mei drops her face into her hands and groans, before perking back up.

“Can I upgrade it?” she nearly begs, eyes sparkling with excitement.  

Befuddled, Spirit doesn’t immediately agree.  Should they?  They already made Mei upset because they freaked out, it would be rude to deny her something that brings her joy, even if it could come at the expense of Spirit’s phone.

Even more confusing is that, rather than think them stupid for having an inferior product, Mei just wants to fix it up for them.

“Um,” they start, haltingly.  “I like that my phone’s pretty indestructible, and I’ve had it for a while.  Aren’t, um, newer phones more fragile?”

“Not when I make them,” comes Mei’s cheeky reply.  “I’ll even use the materials from this one as a base!  It’ll be the same, just better!  And I’ll be able to send you photos!”

She puts on what Spirit can tell are puppy dog eyes, and Spirit caves instantly.  Mei needn’t use those on them; Spirit knows they’re a pushover.

“Okay,” they acquiesce.

Mei cheers.

“Perfect!  I think I have a charm that will look nice on your phone, too, so I can give you that!” She rocks back and forth on her feet, looking up at the ceiling in thought.

Spirit smiles to themself, setting a collection of pieces on one of the pedestals spared of the destruction.  Tonight, they’ll have to get special glue somewhere to make the cracks nearly unnoticeable.  There’s a demon marketplace a few miles outside of town, so there will probably be some there.

They walk over to the other side of the hall, glancing over at Mei, who follows them.  She fiddles with her phone, and a cursory glance of her screen shows that she’s researching the model of Spirit’s phone for reference.  Huh.  Spirit didn’t know phones could do that.

Their eyes travel from Mei’s phone to the legendary blade on her back.

“You can wield the Jade Dragon Blade?” they ask, aiming for nonchalant and landing on incredulous.  They’re not a good actor.

Instead of puffing out her chest and acting proud, something Spirit would find more characteristic of Mei based on the twenty minutes they’ve spent around her, Mei hunches down a little, looking shy.

“Yeah, I just found out.  It’s, uh, pretty cool.” She shuffles her feet, seemingly reluctant to acknowledge her newfound importance.  “I was never really, uh, what was expected of by my family, so it’s kind of a surprise that I can use it.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, Spirit knows.  High expectations for children of powerful families are to be, well, expected, but it doesn’t mean it’s pleasant.  Spirit doesn’t have to see the tired slump of Mei’s shoulders, with the weight of something wearier than just exhaustion, to know that.  They’ve known it since they saw the fervor and desperation Red worked, the way he swallowed hurt at dismissal.  

It’s a bit sad, they think, that they see it in Mei, too.

“I, uh, I know how to use a bunch of weapons,” They offer off handedly as they continue to work.  “I could teach you some things.  If you want?”

Macaque taught them to use a wide variety of weapons, before they settled on their combat sickles, so they know how to use general blades.  They aren’t a sword master, but they’re sure they could teach Mei the basics.

Mei perks up again.

“Really?  That’d be super helpful.  I think my parents kind of expect me to already know how to use a sword, since I can wield this one, and if I told them I don’t know they’d get me some stuffy tutor or something,” she rolls her eyes at the idea.  

“Once I’m done with this,” Spirit gestures the mess of the entrance hall.  “We could meet up somewhere to start?  Call it a favor.”

Spirit tries not to seem too excited, but opening up a new line of favors with someone is always a fun experience.  A new layer of safety, a new token, even.  If they’re lucky,  Either way, to have Mei’s name in their book would be awful nice.

Mei opens her mouth to accept, but the hard slap of heeled slippers against the marble floors makes them both freeze.

“Xiaojiao,” comes the cold voice of Mei’s mother.  “Spirit is here on a job.  Don’t talk to them.”

“But—”

“Either find someplace else to be or stay in your room.  Now,” Mei’s mother is unrelenting, eyes sharp.

Mei gives Spirit a commiserating smile, and then bounds down the hall, disappearing around the corner.

Once she’s gone, Mei’s mother turns on Spirit, a snarl on her face.  Spirit knows the Long family is one of dragons, but maybe they might have forgotten just how protective dragons are of what is theirs.

“Never,” The voice is a hiss, and Spirit hunches down, curling in on themselves.  “Never talk to my daughter.  You keep away from her.”

Spirit trembles, and nods.  They didn’t want any trouble, really!  They just wanted to help.  And Mei owing them a favor means they could interact with her without being as scared as they are, in general.

But, then again, they suppose having a reputation like theirs does work against you.

They work until nightfall, managing to get most of the hard work done.  There’s still the matter of reconstructing artifacts, which means they need special glue.  So they depart late at night to the demon market a few miles out of town.

It’s more a flea market, not exactly as concrete as some of the other shopping centers Spirit has perused.  It’s actually kind of new, popping up because now that the Demon Bull Family is up and running, demons are crawling in droves to get a piece of the new economic boom.

They find a stand a half an hour into their walk that has the type of glue they need.

“Oh, well there’s a familiar face,” The shopkeep says when Spirit steps up to the stall.

Spirit tilts their head to the side, but doesn’t comment.  “I would like that glue, please,” They practiced saying it a few-fifty-times in their head before stepping up, so they would get it right. They point to the jar they want with a small smile on their face, to be pleasant.

“Alright,” The shopkeep, a fox demon by the ears and swishing tail, takes the jar and wraps it gently.

Spirit reaches into their pocket and pulls out their coin purse, but when they do, the shopkeep laughs.

“No, no, your money is no good here,” The shopkeep says.  “Let me return a favor, to you.”

Spirit blinks a few times, but it isn’t a surprise.  People try and return favors all the time, as if they could ask for anything of Spirit and then return the favor on their terms.  Spirit may do anything for a favor, but they don’t let anyone decide when that favor is returned for a reason.

White splattered red, a smile made dull with crimson spilling over lips.  Returning the favor, returning the favor and dying and never coming back and it’s all your fault why didn’t you stop her—

They sigh, stand up straight, and put on the intimidating smile like Macaque taught them to.  Wide eyes but with a glow that is more a promise than an effect, and a grin with just enough teeth to show that it’s sharp.  It feels weird on their face, but it always works.

“No,” They respond, voice ever quiet.  “I’m the one who deals in favors.  I make the terms.  And I want to pay.”

The marketplace has gone silent.  The shopkeep is frozen in place.  Spirit smiles.

“A-Alright,” the shopkeep finally says, rattling off the total.  

Spirit blinks once, letting the glow in their eyes vanish.  Their shoulders fall as they fumble with their coin purse until they pull out the total.  The shopkeep hands them the bag, and Spirit waves cheerily, turning around and heading toward the exit of the market.

The demons in the market give them a wide berth, but Spirit prefers that.  They like their space.

The whole project for the Long family takes a total of three days, two of which are without sleep.  Spirit is used to not sleeping, whether it be from the usual nightmares or a lack of forethought to go to bed, and so they manage.  Being without sleep leaves them jittery and off kilter, but Mei has seemingly taken her mother’s warning to heart, and Spirit is undisturbed as they work.

They like reconstructing the artifacts.  The heads of the Long family tell them that the family can handle the actual reconstruction of the house, which is a relief considering Spirit knows very little about architecture.  Putting artifacts back together is just like putting together a puzzle, and Spirit loves a good puzzle.  Gets their brain working.

Macaque had puzzles, but his were always more...violent.  Spirit prefers these ones, with the artifacts and without danger.

When they’re done, they’re regarded with distaste but not disappointment, which is nice.  Spirit is pretty sure most people they do deals with don’t particularly like them, because no one likes owing people something.  That’s not Spirit’s problem though!  They always allow people to refuse, but people like convenience, and Spirit is malleable, quiet, unobtrusive, and generally willing to be used as any sort of tool.  They’re more an object than a person, on the job, and that’s good!  It means Spirit is good at whatever they need to be.

They almost forget that they’ve given Mei their phone, because they’re leaving the property when she shouts their name.

They jump a full foot in the air, turning around.

“Hey!” Mei comes sprinting across the courtyard, skidding to a stop in front of them.  “You almost forgot your phone!”

She holds it out, and it looks very little like what Spirit expects.  Gone is the black brick of an item, replaced with a wide, reinforced screen.  The case is sturdy, black with purple accents.  Spirit feels the familiar material in the black sections.  

There’s a little purple lotus charm dangling from one corner.

Spirit holds the phone gingerly, almost afraid they might break it.  They tap on the screen, and it glows!  Spirit taps it a few times, but nothing else happens.

“I have no idea how to use this,” they say, looking over at Mei with wide eyes.

Mei laughs, kind and not at all cruel, which is confusing in and of itself.  Spirit half expected her to think them stupid for not knowing.  But Mei directs Spirit to a stone bench by a pond in the gardens, and carefully explains how the touch screen works, and how to get into the different apps, like contacts and messages.

“I put my number in there,” Mei says, pointing out her contact.  “So that way we can text each other!”

“Oh,” Spirit stares, and then smiles, small and shy and pleased.  “That sounds nice.”

How often is it that someone wants to talk to Spirit?   How often is it that Spirit is told how to contact someone for fun?  For something besides work?  They can only recall Red bothering which is somewhat depressing, but it does nothing to stop the swell of elation that makes their hands shake with the desire to move, at the thought of a new friend.

But to flap their hands like that is childish behavior, so they grip their new phone tight instead.

That doesn’t stop their tail from wagging beneath the bench, though.

Once Mei is done teaching them the basics of modern phone technology, she stands, giving them a sheepish grin.

“I should get going.  If mom finds me here with you, she’ll get real cranky, again,” She smiles.  “Text you later?”

Spirit stands, and their shoulders don’t ache so much.  Subconsciously, they feel the wherewithal to stand tall, for the moment, when Mei gives them such a blinding grin.

“Yeah!

They send their first emoji to Red, a little purple heart and the message ‘Red!  I just learned what emojis are!  I hope you like this one!  From, Spirit.’

Red responds with a bunch of flame emojis, and a single red heart back, stuffed between the fires.  It makes Spirit giggle.  Has Red been sending little fires in every text?  It’s certainly on brand, though they feel it might be a little redundant.  Maybe it’s his theme?

They get a text from Mei.

‘Hey!  I got a race a couple of months from now.  Wanna come watch?  Call it a favor ;D!’

Spirit rocks back and forth on their feet excitedly.

‘Mei,

Sounds fun!  See you then :)

From,

Spirit.’

They add a little purple heart emoji to the end of the text, and receive a barrage of green ones in reply.

Spirit smiles.

[evolutionsvoid]

As a natural historian who has gained quite a few rings from the field, I have had the time and experience to pick up patterns and phenomenons that show up in my line of work. While I usually refer to the specimens and environments that I study, the more peculiar occurrences can often show up in places you never think to look. When I visit new places for research, I make it a habit to talk with the locals and get an idea of the land and culture that surrounds me. Usually I focus my thoughts on the species I have selected for observation, but over time I have found that the people I talk to wind up telling me a lot about the creature and themselves at the same time. The questioning and conversation shows what people think of the species, or how they view the entire natural world itself! Ask enough folk around the world, and you start to pick up on some patterns. One of the more obvious phenomenon to note is the desire to label anything big, scary and angry a "dragon." Those familiar with my work should already know quite well how I feel about that behavior. It is a case where people allow first impressions to condemn an entire species, refusing to look any further before calling it a monster. This line of thinking is quite similar to another pattern I have noticed, and that is ugly gross creatures are given no value, while cute pretty ones can often be given too much. To many, the icky stinging insect or the foul corpulent lizard has no purpose to the world, and thus its removal is acceptable. They dare not believe that these creatures have an important role, as those that are hideous cannot have any beauty! A concept spoken by tongues ignorant of the durian! It is often these same folk who then also believe that the adorable and beautiful ones are sacred and paramount to the whole ecosystem! I find it to be a rather messed up system! I know that I myself have called things pretty or ugly, but never would I allow such thoughts to dictate the value of a species existence! One must realize that the dung beetle and the butterfly are one in the same! They are crucial to the environments they dwell in, and seeking to eliminate one of them will often destroy all of them. I apologize for going off on a tangent, but I do so because this line of thinking is what plagues certain species and brings much misery to innocent lives. It creates folk who praise the fragrant blossoms of a tree while chopping away at its gnarled roots. I just wish others could understand that every species plays an important role to the world they live in, regardless of their odor or looks. Judging them only by their appearances is quite shallow and keeps you from seeing their true potential. The reason I have delved into this subject for so long is because I wished to talk about the Colompo, a species that is often scorned for it looks. Folk call them pests and plague bringers, treating them as if they were disease-ridden rats. To them, Colompos are useless stinky garbage eaters, and to that I cry foul! Do they eat garbage? Yes! Are they stinky? Absolutely, but they are far from useless and I will explain why! To start, let us examine what a Colompo is. At first, it may be a bit hard to understand what group it belongs to. It has the comb of a bird, the scales of a reptile and the fur of a mammal, so which is it? The answer is: Mammal! Scaly skin and bird-like structures are nothing new to the mammal class, so these features are quite normal for the Colompo. They have fur on their bodies, teats for feeding their young and bodies that can generate their own warmth. They scurry about on two bird-like legs, while their forearms have developed into fan-like structures that run down their backs. Though they give the impression of wings, the Colompo cannot fly or even glide. That doesn't stop these critters from flapping them wildly at times, usually when they get excited or are trying to scare off predators. They have a long prehensile tail that aids in balance and manipulation, it also comes in handy when they are hiding in the trees or other high up places! These tails end in an arrow-like point, but these structures are not hard nor sharp. Certain folk claim the Colompo use them as spears to impale prey, but these are floppy and are unable to pierce flesh. On their heads, they possess a rooster-like comb of a purplish color, though the structure is a bit more flamboyant on the males. They have large pointed ears and big round eyes, both of which are used to monitor their surroundings. A powerful nose helps them sniff out scent trails that will lead them to food, which brings us to an important part of the Colompo and the stigmas that surround them: their diet. It is funny how the diet of a creature creates so many assumptions in the mind of the public. If it eats plants, it must be peaceful (try saying that to the Khalkotauroi)! If it eats meat, it is evil and mean (I got some bad news about whales)! If it happens to eat dead things, then many call them gross and unsettling, usually leading to people chasing them off or hunting them down. The Colompo is a creature that lands in the latter category, as they are scavengers. In truth, they are considered omnivores, as they do munch on worms, grubs, fruit and any tasty morsels they find, but a huge part of their diet comes from rotting meat. Like mammalian vultures, they seek out carcasses and hurry to the scene, eager to chow on any leftovers they can get. Their teeth are good for gripping and pulling off pieces of tough meat, while their back molars do well against small bones and hardy chunks. Their toes are quite dexterous, which can help them grab hard-to-reach goodies or anchor them down as they yank on a stubborn strip of flesh. When they find a carcass, they will try to gorge as much as they can, storing food in special pouches in their neck. They are quick to feed because they know many others are competing for the same corpse, and often larger scavengers will aim to claim the whole carcass for themselves. At the size of a dog, they can try to push back against bullies at the dining table, but most Colompo will back down and scurry away. However, they do not run far off, as they prefer to use sneakiness over violence when it comes to getting food. While the new owner of the carcass focuses on their meal, the Colompos will quietly creep back to the scene. Colompos tend to travel in groups, and even if they were solo, a large enough corpse to bring in a feeding frenzy will draw in quite a few of these critters. When pushed away from their food, Colompos will band together to get a few more mouthfuls of food. When this happens, a few of them will rush in to harass the owner. This often involves nipping at tails, squawking loudly, spitting, spraying and being an absolute nuisance. Irritated, the larger beast will move to chase them off, leaving the carcass unattended for a few crucial moments. The other Colompos will rush in and grab what they can, scattering once the angry owner comes charging back. They will do this quite a few times, gaining a bit more food each time. Eventually they will relent, and the morsels they gathered will be shared amongst the group. 

While big carcasses are a favorite of the Colompo, they will go after any piece of rotten meat they can find. No matter how small the morsel, their nose will find it and they won't let it escape their hungry mouths. With this, they tend to be found anywhere that has spoiled food or rotting meat. Combine it with the fact that Colompos can be found in quite a few environments, and you have a rather widespread critter. From forests and swamps to city dumps and graveyards, the Colompo will be there. It is here where the trouble between the public and the Colompos begins. Since they are opportunistic omnivores and gleeful scavengers, they tend to get into places where they aren't wanted. Trashcans, junkyards, butcher shops and cemeteries can be feeding grounds for the Colompo as well as a headache for residents. Their dining can be a bit messy and their eagerness to go after fresher food can lead to comical and frustrating scenarios. From distracting customers to steal from a produce stand, to clambering on top one another to reach a cooling pie, Colompos will try anything to snag a meal. Unfortunately, this also means munching upon the recently deceased, as unattended graveyards can be buffets for them. Knowing that they will feed on a human corpse has cemented them as vile ghouls and evil creatures in the minds of many. To see the carcass of a former friend or family member be greedily devoured by hungry Colompos is a revolting thought, so many are quick to eradicate them if they start snooping around. I imagine they get the same reputation as vultures, as omens of death and bringers of disease, which is quite unfair! Since the Colompos will feed upon corpses, they have been associated with death and plagues. To see a roaming band of these critters means that disease and blight is sure to follow. Many are quick to point out that towns ravaged by sickness are often infested with Colompos, who surely brought this misery down upon the village folk. When the cattle drop dead in the field, who is there first? The Colompo. When the corpse wagons drop off diseased bodies at the pits, who happily greets them? The Colompo. So often do they show up around pandemics and death that people believe it is they who bring the plagues. Since this is seen as truth, Colompos are actively hunted and killed when they are spotted around cities and towns. Traps and poisons are often set out, and many farmers are quick to send the dogs after them when the Colompos start showing up. Those who attack them, though, are sure to be careful, as these plague bringers are surely not to be messed with. Their fangs drip with a necrotic venom that will rot your arm right off your body within seconds! Their spit harbors more then twenty plagues, and a single bite will cause your flesh to turn purple and swell until it bursts like a pus-filled balloon! They possess sacs that are filled with a foul acid that they spray at the faces of attackers, melting the flesh down to the bone! They will attack with the coordination and ferocity of a demonic legion, springing from the shadows with toxic jaws and tearing apart foes within sec- WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH! Just a heap of gall-infested junk that is nothing but the yapping of fools and the embellishment of attention seekers! How I wish I could tear up every page and scroll that spouts this wilting garbage! Colompos aren't venomous! They don't attack in groups! They don't spray acid, though they do spray a foul smelling substance at foes. You see, they have glands along their sides and near their rear that secretes a liquid that reeks like a rotten fish that was glazed and left out in the sun for a few weeks. When threatened they at first stand up tall, fan out their back flaps and puff up their chests. They hiss and growl, but do not lunge or seek to bite. If the attacker still charges forth, they turn tail and blast a stink trail behind them as they flee. Believe me, this stuff reeks and it doesn't come off easy! Get coated with it and be prepared to be banned from every town for the next three weeks! Some say tomato juice helps get the stench off, while others suggest really strong soap. My personal solution was to visit Marsh Dryad settlements and stay in their company. Their odor overpowered the one emanating from me, and I received quite a few compliments for my personal stench! Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, THEY DON'T SPRAY ACID! Absolutely preposterous, I say! Don't people ever do research before they write things down?!   No matter how many people claim it is the truth or how many scrolls present it to be so, Colompos are not bringers of pestilence! There have been many studies on Colompos over the years, and none have found that they carry these diseases in their bodies. The only reason they constantly show up during these plagues is because they are scavengers, you fools! They eat carcasses, so obviously they would go to where the bodies are piled the highest! The death and decay that comes from a sick village will lure them in, as they view it as a promising spot for food. Not only do they not cause plagues, but so far we have found that they are good for slowing them! Colompo stomach acid is quite powerful, and it is capable of destroying any disease that lingers in the meat they consume. By devouring virulent corpses, they can actually keep others from being infected! If the sickness is spread by parasites like fleas, Colompos can eat those as well! These creatures are important for cleaning up carcasses and removing sickness from the environment. The droppings they leave behind are free of these diseases and wind up nourishing a whole other group of creatures and plants! They do all this, and we thank them with hate and disgust?! How rude! Do you spit upon your garbage collector? Do you thumb your nose at the fellow who cleans latrines? Hopefully you say "no," because if you say "yes" than I really don't know what to do with you. I find it to be a darn shame that Colompos are forever associated with disease and death, as the species has so much more going on with them. I want to move away from the subject of plagues and instead talk about some of the other wonderful things about Colompos! The big one is that they are utter goofballs! They love to socialize with others of their kind, and it involves all sorts of running and playing. They scurry about and flap their fins wildly like crazed chickens! They make all sorts of stupid noises, and the way they stare with tongues hanging and drool dripping is quite hilarious! I honestly find them to be something out of a children's book, how comical they can be and how goofy their antics are. They are also good mothers! Colompos can have litters from about six to ten, and the mothers care for them until they are grown. They carry their young upon their backs, using their fins to protect them and shelter them from the elements. It is a good thing they can have so many babies, as it helps keep their populations strong despite the efforts of horrible people! I have also found that there are some that keep Colompos as pets! The owners are usually Marsh Dryads or similar hybrids, as strong odors is no bother to them, though I have seen others keep them around. A few Ghilani have been seen keeping Colompos, and I have heard that a human or two has done the same. Though I don't know if I could withstand the smell every day, I certainly applaud those that show such affection for these misunderstood creatures! Hopefully more folk get educated about the real facts about these creatures, and we can begin to show our appreciation for all they do!                   Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian ------------------------------------------------ This is a piece I finished recently that was dragon-based, so I decided to post it for Smaugust because it seemed fitting. This critter was made with the help of Lediblock2 , who had brought up the weird mammal/reptile rat lizard things that were supposed to be dragons in medieval paintings. Honestly they look more like the kind of beast that would raid a trashcan instead of a castle, and that was the concept they brought up. It was a fun idea to play with, and it resulted in this wonderfully gross little furball. They stink and eat garbage, but they are actual pretty nice creatures once you get to know them!

[xyliane]

AU-gust 2: college au

PROMPT THE SECOND: COLLEGE AU (one of these days I’m actually going to draft a story out of my own tales of undergrad into chaos, mayhem, and jumping out of windows cuz the class was boring. instead today, you get the aftereffects of being a TA and also seeing this post on twitter and jumping a few dozen steps to the right. hxh again, zushi pov)

0o0o0o0o0o

It’s 3am, Zushi has a paper due in the morning, and he is bouncing impatiently from foot to foot outside of the RA’s door in shorts and an old shirt that should have fallen apart months ago. It’s not fair, really. He could have had this done days ago, all he needs is the translation for some final key conclusions, but his partner on the Artomatic forums fell off the map, Professor Palm absolutely refuses to help, and Zushi still doesn’t read Greek in any form, let alone whatever form of it is going on in this tome he’d scavenged out of the dusty corners of the old art wing library.

Zushi’s an engineering major. He has a whole internship lined up after this, working with Wing and Dr. Krueger on practical applications of Da Vinci’s wing sketches. This art class is the last humanities section he ever needs to take. Why does he need ancient Greek just to understand a fresco made thousands of years ago depicting a bunch of naked people breaking vases--

He pounds on the RA’s door again, just as the flimsy wood creaks open. Killua, to no surprise, is still awake, white hair casually tousled and blue eyes a little red from whatever he’s using to stay conscious. He looks like any other time Zushi’s seen him, save for the chocorobo-print pajamas. He blinks a little, like he’s not used to looking up at someone taller than him. “Oh, hey Zushi. What’s up?”

Zushi all but launches the tome at Killua (and it is a tome, leather-bound and heavy as a whole weightlifting rack and smelling of dead dust). The RA catches it in his chest with an oomph fuck. “I heard you...” Killua raises an eyebrow, and Zushi swallows heavily. “I heard you can read ancient Greek?” he asks the chocorobos covering Killua’s knees.

When he doesn’t get an immediate response, Zushi knows he’s screwed. He’ll take the F on the term paper, the absolute mess it will do to his overall GPA, Wing will just look disappointed--

And Killua lets out a little chuckle. “Haven’t got that in awhile. You bring your phone?” At Zushi’s stare, he adds, a little sharper, “For the translation.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Killua sighs, and steps into his room as though expecting Zushi to follow. They’re friends, Zushi thinks, or at least friendly--Killua’s a good RA as far as making sure everyone’s forms are in on time and not enforcing the rules when he thinks they don’t make sense. But he’s never been in here before.

It looks like any other single, but with a private bath. Maybe a little neater than most, a teetering tower of textbooks threatening to consume most of the desk. Zushi doesn’t know what he expected.

Fortunately, Zushi has had the fresco’s page marked for ages now, so it’s easy to find and point out the troublesome scrawl. At the sight, Killua seems to brighten, some of the everpresent uni student exhaustion lifting as he traces a finger along the photocopied brushstrokes. He looks absolutely thrilled at whatever it is he’s found, words boxy and stark against the naturalistic forms.

Zushi coughs a little too loudly, and Killua’s head snaps up, white curls bouncing a little. He grins a little sheepishly. “Where did you find this?” he asks. “When I was--I know some people who would kill for a look at this.”

Killua’s previous major is a source of much debate amongst the freshmen--what gives someone fluency in at least three languages, a solid basis in at least calc 3, and way too many opinions about world leaders?--but Zushi doesn’t care right now. He just wants to get this done. “Can you read it?” he asks. “Please?”

Killua shrugs. “Sure, as long as I can borrow this when you’re done. Pronunciation first.”

And Killua begins to read. Zushi has no idea what he’s saying, but the words seem to flow musically, one into the other, until it’s hard to tell if Killua is reading or singing. When the phrases finish, they don’t so much end as echo, vibrating around the shabby college dorm as though aching to sink in and create a place worthy of their sound.

Zushi doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until Killua takes a deep breath himself. He’s pale, paler than usual, and his hands are white-knuckled around the edges of the pages. “Well. That was...” He glances up, seeming to remember Zushi is there, and rolls out his shoulders. “Now, to translate--”

And the ground erupts in light.

When Zushi’s eyes clear, it’s still nighttime, but he’s laying on well-used cobblestone, and an infinite array of stars stretches out in front of his eyes. He doesn’t remember laying down. He doesn’t remember the outside. And he certainly doesn’t remember such colorful statues towering overhead, not unless you count Captain Biggs’s much-defaced figure outside of the gym.

A brown-skinned young man with wind-swept black hair stares at him, brown eyes dancing as he yells something across the stone--a plaza maybe? a courtyard?

By the time the young man’s helped Zushi sit up and offered a small sip of what tastes like wine, Killua’s back, now dressed in something out of a toga party with a smile practically splitting his face, wider and wilder than Zushi has ever seen. “Cool, you made it. Did you know you found one of the last remaining active frescoes? Because I didn’t, and if I had I wouldn’t have read it out loud.”

Zushi shakes his head. “I don’t read Greek,” he says.

Killua says, “You’d better get good quick. We’re in Athens until our friend here--” The young man says something, voice a question even if his expression is still laughing, and Killua shakes his head. “--Gon, can help us find the original.”

“The original...”

Killua kicks him gently with a bare foot. “You’re an engineering major. You’re not that stupid.”

Zushi can all but feel the wheels creaking in his head, splitting away from logic and reforming into some new, illogical, impossible set of gears. “Th-that’s not--we’re in Greece???”

“Circa 4th or 5th century BCE, if I’m getting my dates right,” Killua agrees cheerfully. He holds out a hand and tugs Gon to his feet, their grip and Killua’s eyes lingering just a little too long before offering the same to Zushi.

Zushi takes a few deep breaths, then one more for good measure. He can deal with this. He’s shit at language, but this is a problem, and there will be a solution, and he will find it before he has to turn in that miserable paper.

“Okay,” he says, and lets Killua help him up. “Okay. And your new boyfriend will get me clothes, too?”

Killua’s grin turns smug in a way that Zushi really, really does not want to know. “When in Rome, right?”

“We’re in ancient Greece!” Zushi squawks.

(AUgust prompts)

[somedrunkpirate]

in the dark we travel (Geraskier Sci-fi au ficlet)

Rating: T | Wordcount: 3,4 | No major warnings | pre-slash, first meeting @geraskierfunday prompt: space

//let me know if you want of this because I have too much lore for a oneshot//

Read on ao3 or continue reading below 

The stench of the holding bay almost makes Geralt turn on his heel.

It burns through his nose, coming in waves so overwhelming they should’ve been visible in the air. His senses are a dubious gift as he does not only smell it long before anyone else, but can distinguish individual notes within the cacophony of abomination. The acidic sharpness of cheap hovercraft fuel; the rot of biological waste; and then that sickly sweetness of pink oil, a byproduct from the favourite spirit boosters of all the rich kids and trip tourists partying up above. It’s the most prominent smell by far and it makes Geralt want to gag.

Intergalactic travel on this side of the Tenements is always a gamble.

Jackpot would be a merchant ship, where at least the conditions have to be sufficient for whatever cargo is on board. The fact that this usually results in better living environments for the stragglers sleeping between the boxes is entirely incidental. All in all, a good deal for everyone involved— except for Geralt, sometimes. Most merchants have no desire to have him on their ship. Luckily most are scared enough to let him anyway.

A draw— earning back your bet — would be a scavenger ship. Though sleeping among scavenged ship parts and stolen goods is less comfortable than proper cargo, the experience at least comes with a sense of adventure. Playing cards with pirates; fist fights between mercenaries; drinks with old timers. For many the opportunity would be once in a lifetime. 

The drawback, of course, is becoming accessory to whatever crime the scavengers end up committing during your stay. And Enforcers don’t give one shit whether you sat in the cargo hold or shot the blast cannons yourself. Geralt has enough problems to keep track of to enjoy being blamed for other people’s crimes. Scavengers are insufferable, as a whole, but the most annoying are the ones that get caught.

So, in a sense, it is only fair Geralt loses the gamble. He’d been complaining about a win or a draw anyway, and the universe does so like to remind him there is no one smiling upon him. He ran out of luck years ago.

The smell only worsens when the great metal doors open to the loading dock, and the familiar bright orange of a Garbagecraft is revealed.

Various levels of frustration, despair and anger are voiced in groans and clicks. The crowd stops as a whole, yet unwilling to accept their collective fate. Roach’s ears flicker at the unrest, her two right front hooves scrape at the metal flooring in agitation.

Geralt pats her neck, careful not to get sliced by her sharp mane, and shushes her. “It’s alright. Shh. Good Girl.”

Some of the would-be travellers— two Pervuvians, a Human and a Sketh — push their way through the crowd and gang up around the dock boy who had led them here. They begin to chow him out in various languages, but Geralt catches enough to get the gist. Give me back my money or you will feel my wrath, insert threat specificities here.

As they become more and more creative, Geralt sighs and gives a quiet command to Roach to stay at the edge of the crowd. She makes a noise that Geralt chooses to interpret as agreement, rather than the frustration regarding her current situation that it probably was.

Geralt edges around the crowd to get a better look of the situation, his hand hovering above the hilt of his energy blade. The Pervuvians are part of a larger crew, seven total, standing off to the side with their limbs crossed. The Sketh is carrying a T-1 Blaster openly, which means she’s likely got something even more illegal under that travel robe of hers. The Human is an older man; his eyes almost folded away into his wrinkles. Not a threat at face value— which isn’t a whole lot, in Geralt’s experience. He’s proven right when he activates his perm-mod, focusing his vision, and the blue and white overlay lights up around the presence of an illusion.

He only has to strain his eyes a little before the glimmer dissipates and Geralt can see the true form of the being looming beside the dock boy. A Dizan, neon glyph tattoos and all.

Geralt suppresses a groan, and grabs the handle of his silver sword instead.

Even if he’d wanted to consider suffering teleportation in favour of two weeks sleeping among trash, the choice has now been made for him. The duration of the travel should be enough to see if this one dabbles with the ways of the Ancients, and how far they go if they do.

Though, if they’re willing to kill a kid out of frustration, Geralt has his answer too.

The shouting gets progressively louder and begins to attract more people. The whole of the Pervuvian crew has joined by the time Geralt manages to reach them.

It’s not that the crowd tries to block his path — the moment the flash of his eyes reaches theirs, most have the common sense to cover and step aside — there is just nowhere they can go. The whole platform has started to fill up as more travellers climb out of the drainage pipes. And the other half of the dock is claimed by the large containers, being loaded on one by one.

And yet, the immature show of aggression has managed to claim a small open clearing in the middle of the platform, as people press into each other trying to get outside of the blasting zone. Quite literally, as the moment Geralt breaches this unspoken border, the Sketh puts her hand on the trigger.

The boy goes pale. “Please! I do not have it. You must go to Kestra, the dock master, if you have a complaint.”

Geralt flickers a quick look to the Dizan — still frustrated, but passively so, eyes sparking with interest between the Sketh and the boy — and assesses his options. He grabs his energy blade and activates it.

It doesn’t make a sound, but the purple glow should be obvious enough to the Sketh once he—

“Friends! Please calm yourselves.”

A young man slides in front of the boy— in front of the blaster — hands held open in a placating gesture.

Geralt swears internally and deactivates his blade. The Sketh has her hand on the trigger, but hadn’t aimed the blaster. Even if she’d pulled while Geralt subdued her, it would’ve gone wide, cascading over his head.

But the man, standing taller and a step closer to her, has it pressed right against his heart.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact, smiling brightly at the Sketh and then at the crowd at large. It seems so out of place— so confident, that even the Sketh is taken off guard and takes a step back reflexively. The barrel is no longer touching him, but the shot would be equally deadly.

The man is handsome, though garishly colourful compared to everyone in the vicinity. He looks like he’d gotten lost on his way to Erilisis Boulevard and somehow ended up in a sewage-cum-space station, of all places.

Despite his appearance, he carries himself with ease, even familiarity. There is no sign of an illusion to explain his reckless confidence— Geralt checked. If this is all an act, the only thing the man is playing is himself.

“I understand that the recent actions of our honourable Tin Men have us all on edge, as it is their overbearing application of the law that has many of us seeking out new sights in the first place!”

A few murmurs of agreement rumble over the crowd.

“I assume that most are not here out of free will, but rather out of necessity,” the man continues with sympathy. “We are leaving behind friends, family, business— life. No one should expect any of us to be happy, never mind calm.”

Nodding. Someone whistles, others hum. They’re listening.

The man’s face changes, his passionate expression becoming wry. “And look, I also am not eager to sleep among the left over drab of Zevos’ finest.” He pauses and then continues with a sly smile, “Never mind with all of you stinking up the place.”

Some smile, some even chuckle.

Geralt has to work to maintain an expression of neutrality.

The Sketh still has her hand on her blaster, but her finger has slackened, as if she’d forgotten that she was about to pull the trigger. The tension of the crowd at large is easing; the sharp border around the clearing is melting away. The man, with a few words, has them enthralled.

The man seems to be aware of this, because his attention slides off the crowd in a split second. His posture changes. From the wide and tall stance of a stage performer, he slackens slightly-- pulls in and leans forward, almost intimate. He’s looking at the Sketh, his voice low and almost gentle, but there is an order hidden under the kindness.

“Come, scivan. I know the stench is worse for you, but this might very well be the last ship of the day cycle. And with the Enforcers dogging the Magistrate’s tail, the whole operation could be shut down any moment. We cannot afford a delay, none of us can.”

And that is when Geralt realises the man does have a perm-mod after all. Not an illusion patch like the Dizan, but a rarer and much more volatile augmentation: a speech-mod.

Where temporary speech mods might translate your words for a day, or make your singing slightly more passable for single performance, a permanent speech mot does not add anything to the user. It just enhances what is already there.

If you’re good— if you are truly a master of tone, words and whatever fucking else comes with skilled communication, the Ancient Ways are nothing in comparison. Violence is obvious. Ancient crafting leaves traces of some sort behind, even if it is just merely the use of something else. But talking— speech, it takes nothing, it leaves nothing. It is as fleeting as a memory, an experience. Done well, you don’t even remember it, because you don’t know you’re being convinced in a manner more potent than normal interactions.

At least, the ones Geralt has come across prefer an art of subtlety. This man, quite clearly, is more like the ones who wear their speech mod openly, shimmering on the back of their necks, some curving down to their throat in graceful lines. Entertainers, singers, writers; all whose persuasion and manipulation is seen as harmless— made safe in the illusion of fiction.

And yet, despite the apparent taming of danger, they have been given the same title of a specialized class that once lived on the planet called Earth. Those who were able to leverage their seemingly frivolous talents to gain access into the highest courts; become confidants of Kings while serenading them to sleep.

Bards.

Geralt has always found it ironic. To expect these people to only use their powers for entertainment and laughter, named for a group that ostensibly did the same more than a millennium ago, while conveniently forgetting an important fact.

Most Bards were spies.

Gerat carefully sets his thoughts aside when the Bard moves. His focus returns fully to the situation at hand.

The Bard is reaching out to the Sketh, slowly, carefully-- recklessly, idiotically, completely careless of the danger, of setting her off.

She flinches when the Bard’s hand touches her fur covered arm— the one holding the gun.

Geralt takes a careful step closer. His hand hovering over the activation pad of his blade.

He’s quiet, but the Bard clocks him— a glance, eyes unwavering, before he focuses on the Sketh again and says, low, “Let this go.”

There is a breath. Geralt waits.

“Fine,” she spits out. “But I claim best bunk.”

She isn’t looking at the Bard’s face— doesn’t catch the relief before it's drowned out by a companionable smile and a hint of satisfaction. Geralt does. Geralt sees all of it.

The man’s expressions are as garish as his clothing. He is too animated-- too bright-- to belong in a place like this. Amongst people like this. These are people who lie through suppression, not misdirection. Even if it's all false, it is out of place. But it isn’t-- false. Parts of it are genuine, and Geralt doesn’t think it's a mistake. The Bard doesn’t mind people seeing him. It’s disconcerting.

The Bard claps his hands together and turns back to the crowd. “You heard her, the show is on the road!”

As if on cue, the platform shifts and rumbles. Walkways start to extend from the edges toward the sides of the ship. Doors shift open with heavy sighs of pressurised air. The dock boy takes the distraction to get the fuck out of dodge, though he throws a grateful gaze to the Bard as he slips away. The Bard’s smile goes incrementally brighter.

“Now,” he says, raising his voice, “Those with smell sensitivities should have priorities to the upper decks. Let’s show those fuckers we aren’t as inconsiderate as they make us out to be, eh? Behave and you might be treated with an entirely free performance of Craven Roses!”

At that, the Bard bows to a scattering of applause. The promise of potential entertainment brings a measure of good cheer among the passengers— any travel without warp-speed is an exercise in boredom regardless, but the trip between Zevos and the outer ring of Xadan is especially notorious for it. After the purple glow of the Zevos System is left behind, the following week of utter darkness is enough to drive anyone cabin-crazy. The appearance of Xadan eventually brings light. It isn’t pretty, but it's at least something. A measure of progress, watching Meteor Border come closer and closer.

The worst is never the dark, it's feeling like nothing is happening. That you’re moving, but will never arrive.

Geralt shakes his head to himself. He can deal with that. He’s used to it— whether he is in a spacecraft or walking on solid ground. But most people aren’t. Geralt would prefer not to suffer through thinly veiled innuendos posing as a passion play, but the alternative might be even more tedious. He has a sense that this won’t be the last time the Sketh will become a problem.

At least, for now, she isn’t his concern. He clicks his energy blade back on his utility belt and is about go back for Roach when a voice calls out—

“Witcher!”

The Bard.

Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.”

The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.”

Geralt snorts. “Funny you say that, Bard.”

“Jaskier, and thank you,” the Bard-- Jaskier says grandly, seemingly unaware of how very much Geralt did not intend it as a compliment. Or maybe he did and doesn’t care. “What a twist of fate, is it not? Two men out of time, on the edge of the universe.”

Geralt snorts and begins to walk.

Jaskier rushes after him, slipping deftly between people to keep up. “Wait!”

“I’m not here for your tales,” Geralt says. “Find another audience.”

Jaskier huffs and makes an affronted sound, but persists. When Geralt eventually breaches the edge of the crowd, he’s caught up, a little out of breath.

“Come on, Witcher. Let me just— I’ve heard of the adventure of people like you and I was wondering—“

His voice cuts out and his eyes go wide, when Roach comes out of the shadows. Mouth agape, he stares.

Geralt reaches out for her lead and turns his back on Jaskier. He’s not interested in seeing the inevitable terror— or, if Jaskier is as reckless as he seemed to be in front of a blaster, anger. Geralt puts a hand on Roach’s neck, knowing that one sign from him and Jaskier wouldn’t have a chance for either. Not that it would help his case.

It’s quiet for so long that Geralt almost thinks Jaskier managed to retreat in complete silence, but when he turns, he’s still standing there, mouth agape.

“I thought—“ he says, and there is no terror. “I thought they were extinct. I thought you— Witchers had hunted them all.”

He isn’t afraid. He is awed.

Geralt thinks of the busy stalls in Kae’r Mor, the gentle huffing, soft rumbling and kind eyes that follow you as you pass through the halls. Dozens of lives saved through secrecy, protecting a species deemed undeserving of existence, merely because some had used them in horrific ways.

He thinks of Vesemir, furious, as Geralt took Roach from her stall.

—selfish. Your actions put all of them in danger, and you know it.

But one survivor shouldn’t — can’t — be able to ruin it. He’s careful, he avoids the corners of the galaxies where they’re most known. Where they’re more than just a story. He can lay the blame all on himself: it shouldn’t be hard to understand one monstrous creature having bonded with another.

He just hadn’t been able to leave her behind. Not if he wasn’t certain he’d ever be back.

“Amaureen,” Jaskier says, quietly, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. To hear that word spoken in such a way— with wonder, is disorientating.

“Does she have a name?”

“Roach.”

There is a stunned silence, and then Jaskier laughs. “Not what I expected for a creature straight out of legend.”

Geralt shrugs. “She likes it.”

Jaskier smiles and then looks at Roach again, hesitating. “Can I—“

“You can try,” Geralt says, gruffly. But he centers himself, trying to project calm— not trust, he can’t lie in this, but he shows her what he saw. Jaskier talking down a crowd, levity cutting through a knife through the tension. Light in a moment of darkness.

Roach huffs and holds still as Jaskier’s fingers brush her snout. His eyes go impossibly bright, and his breath catches when Roach, unprompted, presses against his hand.

“She likes me,” Jaskier says, too surprised to be smug about it.

Geralt doesn’t respond— doesn’t disagree. He feels unbalanced, put off. None of this— none of this is going like it is supposed to go.

Roach responds to his distress, stepping back with a huff.

Jaskier takes his hand back, doesn’t press for more, and says, “Thank you.”

As if that is something people say after touching an Amaureen. Geralt feels a headache brewing.

“Hmm,” he says, and tugs on Roach’s lead. They begin their walk to the farthest end of the ship.

Jaskier doesn’t take the hint.

“How did you find her? Have you had her long?”

“None of your business, Bard.”

“Jaskier, or Dandel, on stage,” he says blithely, “and okay, fine, but you have to understand. This is momentous. I’ve always known there was something off about all those tales. How could a bond-species suddenly turn against their riders? Why all at the same time?”

Geralt makes a noise of warning. Roach’s mane bristles.

“Okay, have it your way. Something else then.” There is barely a pause before he asks, continues, rapid-fire and passionate: “Have you ever encountered a hag? I’ve been hearing about one running a spirit bar in the Dekolijn but that could be a myth. Do they have the intelligence to do such a thing or are they more beast-like?”

Geralt’s jaw tenses, glancing sideways to glare and growl— something, he doesn’t know what, because the moment he turns, he sees something else.

The Dizan, watching them with interest.

For a moment Geralt’s stomach drops— Vesemir was right. He should never have taken Roach with him.

But then he realises that the Dizan isn’t looking at Roach.

They’re looking at Jaskier with a considering look in their eye.

Resignation falls like a heavy cloak around Geralt’s shoulders. He forces his expression in a blank slate and allows Jaskier to follow him, giving occasional one word answers like breadcrumbs, that lead him into the ship— away from that pale white gaze.

As they walk through the bowels of the ship, bile in the back of Geralt’s throat, his nose burning, and a headache in full bloom, one thought circles around in the forefront of his mind, over and over:

He should’ve gone with teleportation after all.

[inumaqi]

top ten tagged by @linkspooky 🍊 explanations under the cut! sorry for rambling xo → rules: name your top ten favourite characters from ten different fandoms, and then tag ten people - @osomanga @kara-suno @anonimarevolts @zeninmaki @wildbishonen @shysheeperz @tkmewthyou @kaldurlenn @joxterism @marshmallowdonutsprinkles

snufkin okay so he’s the only one not from an anime or manga but i had to put him on bc he’s the most important fictional character to me, ever. i grew up watching the moomin cartoons in the 90s and thinking about it instantly calms me down - they used to air the episodes early in the morning when it would still be dark outside: the landscapes were moody and cosy, the characters were so softly spoken and articulate... it’s just peak nostalgia. anyway, snufkin is moomin’s best friend; he returns to moominvalley every year to be with his friends during the spring and says his goodbyes to go adventure again come winter. it upsets moomin when he leaves but snufkin is adamant that quiet and solitude are important and healthy, and it’s not fair to expect him to compromise on his independence - that made a really big impact on me as a kid, especially as someone who never really had their ‘own’ space (twinsies). relationships aren’t weakened by physical distance or time, they’re about communication and understanding. that was important too. i don’t think i realised just how influential it had been until i was an adult but snufkin is an anarchist. he first shows up in the comics when moomin and sniff are talking about opening a bank - he tells them they should plant fruit trees instead. he destroys private property and rescues orphans, he refuses to participate in things that don’t bring him joy. when he’s asked where home is, he replies, “nowhere. or everywhere! it depends how you look at it” - the whole world belongs to him, and the whole world belongs to everyone else too.

yomo renji in general, i like characters that trudge along in the background and do the nitty-gritty work that supports the main story. i like people like that irl too. more than anything else, yomo is desperate to form human connections, even though he’s shackled by self-doubt and self-loathing. he just wants to positively contribute to a community, thinking he’s most useful keeping a quiet eye on people who might need protection/guidance (while still giving them space to grow and act themselves) or foraging for human corpses so that others aren’t in danger or moral anguish doing it for themselves.

bird boy is a total weapon - “the perfect ghoul” - and you’re reminded over and over again but a lot of his growth is about rejecting violence and repurposing his power as something productive that he can use to help the people around him instead of hurting people (the yang to uta’s yin). in the first few chapters, he says he kills humans (he’s a ghoul, humans are food, it’s natural) and yet he’s consistently framed as a scavenger who seeks out ‘roadkill’ [suicide victims] for sustenance, even before coming to anteiku, and implements a system so other people can do the same.

suguru getou i was originally gonna say meg bc i love him but, having just finished The Flashback Arc, i can’t stop thinking about getou and i’m beyond impressed with how akutami has managed to ground him so well, so sympathetically. getou is the sick, warped darkness to the hopeful light that gojou commands but... in an uncomfortable twist, the reverse is true, kind of.

actually, gojou is arrogant and confrontational and hyper individualistic. he’s a dissident. getou is obedient, compassionate, self-aware... he has a sense of social responsibility and passionately believes that his skills should be used to protect those who can’t protect themselves - non-jujutsu sorcerers - and all of the suffering he endures as a result is worth that. idk if others are reading his downfall differently but, from where i’m standing, that overwhelming responsibility never goes away, he doesn’t give up on it - he just starts to view the social landscape differently and begins to see how jujutsu sorcerers are vilified and mistreated in spite of all the good that they do. the ‘weak’ aren’t really weak when they’re able to organise and assert collective power over a minority, and so his sympathies shift.

the nail in the coffin for getou is learning that the hurt and pain could be eradicted from the world by cutting the head of the proverbial snake: non-jujutsu users generate cursed energy, so get rid of non-jujutsu users and cursed energy won’t be generated. it’s all horribly, weirdly rooted in good intentions that weigh him down and misdirect him.  shinazugawa genya i feel like the bond that slowly starts to develop betwen tanjirou, and zenitsu and inosuke (in particular) is nicely foiled by genya’s lonely journey towards becoming a pillar. after losing almost all of his family and having sanemi walk away, genya is angry, antisocial, rude, violent, evasive...

he’s characterised as competitive, as if he hates his peers and wants to leave them in the dust as an act of self-satisfaction, a power fantasy or whenever, but this is a deliberate misdirection to cover for the fact that he’s scrambling to be a pillar so that he can reconnect with his brother and prove to him that he can protect himself; that sanemi doesn’t need to shoulder everything alone like he used to. his entire goal is an act of apology.

and in a story where so many characters are able to hone these exceptional skills, genya is uniquely disadvantaged as the only one who can’t master breathing techniques. rather than having a hero moment and powering up, his need to reconnect with sanemi is so strong that he essentially decides to compromise his humanity and become a kind of monster by ingesting the demons he’s pledged to annihilate. amajiki tamaki i wish i had a a longer explanation for this one but it’s actually super simple: tamaki is a really, really, really good portrayal of a person burdened with severe anxiety. the way he physically carries himself, the way he hides his face, his manner of speaking, his dependency on his mirio, how he interprets compliments as trickery, how he needs to be pushed and pushed and pushed before he’s finally able to release his potential... every single scene with tamaki felt deeply personal when i was reading bnha and i knew exactly what he was supposed to be feeling. shinmon benimaru sometimes good, nice people don’t fit a little friendly mould and i like that benimaru is hostile and rough and antisocial, even with people he cares about. he doesn’t expect anything of people, he doesn’t want them interfering with him, and he wants to help and support them all the same because he believes in community. he’s completely oppositional to the special fire force because he thinks it’s a tool to pursue an ideology rather than to protect people, which is why it’s so important when the eighth are finally able to win his approval - they become the only company the seventh consider allies, and it’s proof that their objectives are righteous. despite his reputation as... kind of a nuisance, his skill is acknowledged by everyone and he’s universally regarded as the strongest fire soldier there is. in spite of his antisocial attitude, he agrees that it’s important to share that with younger fire soldiers - he’s incredibly patient and understanding with them, helps them to individually adapt. the way he (and others in company seven) operate in contrast to the other companies when fighting infernals is really cool to me for two reasons: (1) it provides a commentary on how cultures and traditions often struggle to survive when they’re systematically (forcefully) replaced through power and wealth - although the subtext is a little troubling because it’s unclear whether ōkubo is conflating multiculturalism with globalisation which, uh, big nope; and (2) philosophically speaking, the approach to death is interesting. where the other companies essentially perform last rites and offer absolution to the deceased, benimaru personally takes responsibility - at the request of the people in his district - for sending them off in huge public display, kind of like a festival intending to celebrate their life. i think it speaks to how profoundly he values life. akihiko kaji i liked akihiko from the beginning because he’s stoic and introspective and also excitable and dumb. he’s a people watcher and waits for opportunities to softly guide uenoyama and mafuyu when they’re quietly crying out for help but doesn’t interfere any more than he thinks is necessary because he knows they can make their own way to where they need to go. i liked akihiko even more when he got really fucking messy. his relationship with ugetsu is sweet and it’s incredibly ugly and unhealthy because they both fail utterly to communicate with one another - they’re both to blame for avoiding and hurting each other, and i think that’s a really normal issue that people find difficult to overcome. i’m super interested (and really nervous) to see how his relationship with haruki develops. he’s done some horrible things to haruki and i want him to be accountable for those things and have them affect their relationship in a realistic way.

tanigaki genjirou one thing i really, really love about golden kamuy is the way noda satoru incorporates the importance of minority cultures into the story, and tanigaki’s apparent abandonment of his matagi heritage is really beautifully written. matagi hunting traditions shaped his life as a young man, it’s how he was able to really assimilate to the people around him and form relationships and - without getting too spoilery - he divorces himself from it all when he’s overcome by grief and hatches a plan for revenge against the person responsible. so, by allowing himself to surrender to negative feelings and thoughts instead of seeking support and learning to heal from what happened, he becomes a total shadow of himself. 

makimura takeshi i know i’ve gushed about it before but i can’t properly explain just how incredible it felt seeing an asexual character in manga dialogue about being asexual, and devils’ line does it twice. the reason i’m so attached to makimura in particular is because he doesn’t seem to have fully figured it out - and he’s kinda... comfortable with that. he wants to be with someone and he wants to be monogamous but he can’t understand why he doesn’t feel sexual desire towards her; he knows his feelings aren’t platonic but doesn’t know whether they can really be called romantic either.

not to go dark mode but i very vividly remember just how lonely and horrifying it was battling with those uncertainties when i was a teenager, thinking i was broken because i didn’t have Normal Human Feelings and needed to be fixed. i was so worried about it that i thought about all the boys i knew, picked the one i thought was the nicest and actively tried to develop a crush on him. it was dumb as fuck but, ten years later, i realise it was really desperate and sad too. i forced myself to have ~my first kiss~ (it was horrible) because i felt like i was getting left behind and i think i would’ve put myself in worse situations as i got older if i hadn’t suffered with such bad social anxiety.

i hadn’t really thought too much about a lot of this stuff for yeaaars but it all came flooding back when i was reading devils’ line. it was bittersweet bc i was remembering all of those shitty feelings but also watching this character grapple with those same questions and go: i don’t know yet and that’s not weird, let’s just grow with it. i still don’t totally know whether i’m ace or aro or bi, or whatever, but i’m trying to be okay with just... not knowing.

misora shuuji anyway, devils’ line isn’t actually a manga with a specific focus on sexuality and gender but shimanami tasogare is and all of the characters are written beautifully. if you haven’t read it yet... then why haven’t you read it yet? misora is only about twelve years old and watching them battle with their growing pains is really compelling - they’re closeted but, through the lounge, they have somewhere to explore their gender and all the questions they have about it. they’re amab and present as traditionally feminine wrt clothes, wigs, makeup, etc. but can’t quite tell if they see themselves as a girl, a boy or non-binary.

with the onset of puberty and anxieties about physical changes to their body, misora’s story puts a lot of emphasis on the pressure they face to just ‘make up their mind’ about something that’s actually incredibly complex and doesn’t have any easy answers. they snap and shout and get upset, especially when tasuku (the protag) tries to push them into a corner because he wants a concrete label or identity he can attach to misora, even though space is exactly what misora needs.