#a broken cigarette your loyal companion

[tumbly-s]

Trigun body horror week day 3 — LUNGS

[jiejie-eonni-onee-sama]

THE BASTERDS’S ANGELS

Somewhere in a safe place in the French countryside, a group of armed men prepared themselves for the mission they were sent for: killing Nazis and sending fear through the ranks of the Wehrmacht based in France. 

And until now, they managed to accomplish their work, as the German soldiers only knew them as The Basterds. 

Led by Lieutenant Aldo Raine, those volunteers took pleasure in killing and terrifying their foes, as many of the Basterds were Jewish. 

Looking at his men, Aldo smirked: he could not wait to hunt down new Nazis. 

"I know that look. Looking for new scalps, darling?"

Smiling, he turned and saw the woman he cherished the most. 

"You know me too well, honey."

"That's why we're husband and wife!"

"Ya damn right, Winona."

The woman named Winona was, indeed, Aldo's wife. Born in the Cherokee tribe, this woman was the embodiment of the Native American female warrior: athletic, wise, loyal, and brave.

Moreover, she was the only woman in this group. Some people would think that a woman had nothing to do in the U.S. Army.

But quoteth Donny, "She kills more nazis in one day than I kill in three days."

The Cherokee woman has already won the respect of her peers since the first day in France. Besides, she gained a gruesome reputation among the Nazis based in France. They called her "The Cherokee Amazon."

The Apache and the Cherokee: a match made in heaven who took their enemies in hell...

Aldo put his arm around her shoulders:

"Can ya believe it, honey? You and I, in France, killing fascists... How pleasant it is!"

"I agree."

"It's like our honeymoon!"

Winona laughed at this statement.

"Well, a very blood-thirsty honeymoon. But honestly, I would never imagine killing Nazis without you, Aldo!"

"Aw, sweetie! Ya know how to talk to me!" he grinned before kissing her.

A sweet moment interrupted by the booming voice of Donny Donowitz, aka "The Bear Jew."

"Aw, look at those lovebirds!"

"Damn ya, Donny! I was enjoying this moment!"

"We have noticed!" smirked Wicki.

Raine rolled his eyes but smirked. His men are the best among the best, especially when it comes to killing Nazis.

They all came from different backgrounds, had various faiths, but for sure, they were more than ready to wipe out the Third Reich. 

Of course, among his men, there was Donny Donowitz, a sturdy chap from Boston and the other leader of the group. This man gained the nickname of "Bear Jew" after he bashed the skull of dozens of Nazis with his prized baseball bat.

Then, you have Wilhelm Wicki, who fled his native Austria after the Anchlüss. Probably one of the oldest members of this group, his remarkable marksmanship made him a feared sniper.

Sitting next to Wicki was Hugo Stiglitz, a former German soldier. He hated the regime to the core, and he managed to kill 13 Gestapo officers. The Basterds get him out of his jail, and now, Hugo became one of them. More silent than some of his teammates, he easily scared people around him.

Near them, a young man was quietly reading a book, enjoying this peaceful moment. This young man was Smithson Utivich, another Jewish-American soldier. Like his friends, he enrolled in this group to save the remaining European Jews from Nazism's clutches. Even if he was not the most impressive, he excelled at killing Nazis.

The one next to Utivich, who was taking a small rest, was Omar Ulmer, his best friend. A remarkable soldier, Private Ulmer often works along with Smithson and Donny during his missions. Fast and efficient, the Nazis did not stand a chance against him. 

Not far from Omar, his friend Gerold Hirschberg was laughing with his comrades. Hirschberg was considered a loyal and cheerful friend by his fellow Basterds. However, his hot-tempered character made him the official trouble seeker of the group, as he often found himself in danger.

The other man talking with Hirshcberg was named Michael Zimmermann. He has the two roles of driver and explosives expert. The Germans muttered that he was a crazy man who escaped from an asylum. But the truth was that Michael only became mad when he saw a swastika. But for the Basterds, he was a pleasant companion and a joyful friend.

Sitting at his right, his best friend named Simon Sakowitz was tidying his medical stuff. Before the war, he was a brilliant medicine student, but he decided to put his studies on hiatus to enroll in the army. Simon was a skilled and efficient doctor in his group and also an appreciated friend.

Smoking a cigarette, Andy Kagan smirked while looking at his teammates. The young Mister Kagan came from a wealthy family and started a promising acting career in Hollywood until he decided to rescue his people in Europe. He was the spy of the group, a master of manipulation and charm. 

Leaning against a tree, Archie Hicox looked at his allies with a mixture of puzzlement and amusement. This British officer was the last addition to the group. In the beginning, the MI5 spy did not get along with the Basterds, as he saw them as a bunch of crazy rednecks while the others considered him as a snobbish man. But the more they worked together, the most they trusted each other, and mutual respect started to settle between them.

All those men were here in France for one reason: killing Nazis.

Something they excelled, as they did earlier, as they exterminated an entire patrol an hour ago.

Now, they enjoyed a moment of calm to relax before reaching another town. 

Suddenly, Aldo gently stroke Winona's cheek and said:

"Get ready, my lady. We're gonna move!"

"At your orders, Mr. Raine!" smirked the woman as she started to pick up her belongings.

Smiling, the Lieutenant turned to his men and exclaimed:

"Get up, boys! We move!"

"Uh? What? What's going? Are we attacked?" asked Omar, startled.

"Nah, Omar. The Lieutenant just said we're moving. Get up now!" explained Donny.

"Where are we going?" asked Simon.

"Probably somewhere near Fontainebleau. At least, we have to get closer to Paris," replied Utivich.

"Exactly, Smitty! I hope I will have time to pay my debt off once we got there!" sighed Zimmermann as he finished packing up his stuff.

As he picked his backpack, Hirschberg noticed Hugo, who trimmed his knife in his bag. Smirking, the young Basterd came nearer to his comrade. A little game that Andy and Wicki had noticed.

"Oh my Lord! Here we go again! Will Hirschberg never learn his lessons?" sighed the Austrian.

"I wonder how it will end this time: will Hirschberg have a kicked butt or a broken nose?" smirked the American.

Meanwhile, Gerold was close to Hugo and said with an authoritative tone:

"C'mon, Stiglitz! Hurry up! We have to go!"

The German deserter turned and glared at his teammate:

"Lass mich in Ruhe, Hirschberg."  (Leave me alone, Hirschberg).

"Why do I fear the worst?" sighed Simon as he pinched the bridge of the nose.

He counted how many times he healed the bruises on Hirschberg after the latter tried to pick up on someone stronger than him.

At the same time, Hirschberg teased Hugo while the latter tried to contain his anger. But his patience was running thin... 

"Ich werde es dir nicht zwei mal sagen." (I won't tell you twice).

"Aw, come on! Don't look at me like that! I am trying to tell you that you're a bit slow!"

"Stop that, Gerold! You're going to regret it!" smirked Andy.

Indeed, Hugo was pissed off by Gerold. Fuming, he took his knife and put it on Hirschberg's throat.

"Leave me alone. Now!" growled the German man.

Gulping, the young Basterd raised his hands in defeat.

"O-OK, Stiglitz. I stop. Can you lower your knife, please?"

Growling, Hugo put his knife back in his vest while Gerold ran away.

"We told you that you're going to have trouble, Geri!" snickered Michael.

As for Wicki, he turned to Hugo and asked:

"War es notwendig, Hirschberg einen Schrecken einzujagen, Hugo?" (Was it necessary to scare Hirschberg, Hugo?)

"Er ist eine Nervensäge." (He is a pain in the ass.) snarled Hugo as he walked towards Donny and Omar.

Wilhelm rolled his eyes and muttered:

"Ich schwöre bei Gott, die würden mich wahnsinnig machen!" (I swear to God, they would drive me crazy!)

"C'MON, BOYS! WE HAVE A LONG ROAD!" yelled Aldo as he led the march along with Winona.

Soon, all the commando started their long road across the French countryside. Unbeknownst to them, they were about to make an encounter that would change their lives for a long time...

Meanwhile, Maddie and Ada wandered through the forest, looking for shelter.

A little earlier, they had almost been spotted by a German patrol, which had scared them.

Now, their priority was to find a safe place while they waited for help.

As they walked through the woods, Maddie saw a cave:

"Look, aunty! A shelter!"

"Well done, Maddie! Let's go!"

They rushed to the hiding place and checked that nothing was inside.

Once assured that they were alone, Ada ordered her niece:

"Listen to me, Maddie: you're going to stay here and make no noise, okay?"

"What about you? What are you going to do?" asked the little girl.

"I'll try to find something to eat. Keep quiet, do you understand?"

Maddie nodded. Smiling, Ada stroked her head:

"I'll be back soon, I promise!"

Then, she walked away while Maddie hid behind a rock.

The young girl hated being alone. Of course, she knew that it was necessary. But the truth was that she was scared.

She was afraid to be alone, at the mercy of the Germans. After all, what could a seven-year-old girl do when faced with armed soldiers?

And then, who knew what could happen to her aunt?

Well, the little girl knew that Ada was capable of defending herself. But if anything happened to her, she would not be able to survive.

Suddenly, she heard voices and footsteps approaching the cave. Covering her mouth and trying to be as hidden as possible, Maddie tried to figure out who had just arrived.

She kept her ears open and listened to the conversation:

"Great, guys! We can stop here!"

"Finally, it's about time! We must have been walking for hours, and my legs are killing me!"

"Stop complaining, Gerold!"

"Oh no! You're not going to start bickering again!"

Maddie was intrigued: these people seemed to be speaking in English. Well, at least she wasn't dealing with Nazis, which was good news.

But what were these people doing here?

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear anyone enter the cave until a man's voice asked:

"What on earth are you doing here?"

Horrified, she looked up and saw a medium-sized man staring at her with a surprised look.

As for Omar, he did not expect to find a child alone in a place like this.

He called his boss:

"Lieutenant, come and see!"

"What?" asked Aldo, who arrived in his turn and saw the little girl.

"Look at that! It's quite funny!"

"What's going on?" asked Wicki.

For all answers, the two men came out of the cave, escorting Maddie. The little girl was looking at the rest of the group with a frightened look.

"It seems that our hideout already had an occupant!" declared Hicox.

"But who's crazy enough to leave a kid all alone in the wild?" exclaimed Michael.

"I don't know," muttered Andy.

Simon, in his role as a doctor, walked over to the girl:

"I need to check her out. Who knows, maybe she needs treatment?"

"Do your job, doc!"

Sakowitz kneeled in front of Maddie and asked her:

"Do you speak English?"

She hesitantly replied with a small voice:

"Y-Yes, doctor!"

"Aw, ain't she cute?" smiled Donny.

"Low your voice, Don. She is scared!" said Winona while looking at the young girl.

Meanwhile, Simon carefully examined Maddie. He realized that she might suffer from malnutrition.

"Oh God, look how thin she is!"

He turned to Aldo.

"Lieutenant, do we have some food to give her?"

"For sure! Omar, gimme some bread, would ya?"

"Right now, sir!" replied Ulmer as he threw a piece of bread.

Raine caught it and handed the bread to Maddie.

"Here, ya can have some!"

Hesitantly, the little girl took the bread and muttered:

"Thank you!"

"Cute and polite: you must be a lovely little person!" smirked Archie.

Maddie took a bite and ate slowly, enjoying the taste of the bread.

"Poor little thing! She must not have eaten for days!" declared Wicki.

Winona came nearer and asked:

"What's your name, little one?"

Once she finished her mouthful, the little girl replied:

"Maddie Mandelbaum!"

"Okay, Maddie. Now, tell me: what are you doing here, all alone?"

Looking around, Maddie replied:

"It's because I flee!"

"What do you flee?"

For an answer, Maddie picked her necklace and showed a silver Star of David.

That's all it took for the Basterds to understand what Maddie was trying to escape.

"I see... You're a Jew, right?"

The little girl nodded.

"I see... But what are you doing by yourself?"

"I'm not alone: my auntie went to get food."

"Well, okay. And what's your auntie's name?" asked Smithson.

A female voice answered:

"Why don't you ask me?"

Everyone turned to Ada, who was holding a bag over her shoulder.

The young woman looked suspiciously at this troop. Even though they were not wearing Wehrmacht uniforms, she did not want to take the risk of crossing paths with Gestapo soldiers.

"Well, I guess you're the famous aunt?" asked Omar.

"Indeed. I am Adela Mandelbaum. And you?"

"We are American... with a German deserter, an American-Austrian soldier, and a British officer," replied Andy.

Sighing with relief, Ada put down her bag.

"At least there's some good news in this mess!"

Maddie rushed to her aunt and said:

"Ce sont des gens bien, tata. Ils m’ont donné du pain!"  (They're good people, Auntie. They gave me bread!)

Aldo walked over to Ada and introduced himself:

"Lieutenant Aldo Raine, nice to meet ya. So like this, you're the one who manages survival?"

"Yes, indeed."

"I see. And how long have ya been alone?"

"I don't know. I'm more concerned about escaping the Germans than counting the days."

Aldo nodded before replying:

"And I suppose you're hiding because you're Jewish, Imma right?"

Ada sighed.

"Exactly."

Donny spoke up:

"Lieutenant, we can't leave them alone. They'll get caught by the Krauts!"

"But they're civilians: we can't afford to have potential targets with us!" grumbled Hirschberg.

Hugo glared at him:

"Put yourself in the kid's shoes: would you like to be left at the mercy of those sickos? I don't think so."

Simon added:

"Besides, if they stay with us, they'll be safe. What do you think, Lieutenant?"

Raine massaged the back of his neck, doubtful.

"It's true that having two civilians with us can be a problem..."

He met his wife's gaze as she stared at him pleadingly. And if there was one person who could make Aldo Raine give in, it was Winona.

He sketched a smile:

"But as ya seem to me two brave women, it seems logical to me that ya stay with us!

This decision was greeted with enthusiasm by the rest of the team.

"I thank you for your help."

"No worries. After all, several of my guys are Jewish."

The young woman asked:

"Before I forget, Lieutenant Raine..."

"Yes, Miss?"

"What is your mission here?"

At these moments, she saw all the Basterds sketch a toothy grin. And the Lieutenant's answer did not hide their intentions:

"We parachuted into France for one mission and one mission only: to kill Nazis!"

Hugo asked:

"Doesn't that cause you problems?"

At these words, he saw a gleam in Ada's eye that he knew all too well. He could see the sorrow and hatred for the Nazis in her brown orbs.

And the determined tone of her voice confirmed his impression:

"On the contrary, it pleases me to hear that my people are being avenged. Hitler's foot soldiers stole my life and threatened my niece. I lost my family, and I don't know if they are alive or if those Gestapo goons shot them!"

She turned to Aldo and declared:

"Lieutenant, I know I look like a simple damsel in distress, but I want revenge. I want to make them pay for the evil they've done."

Impressed by this sudden determination, Aldo asked:

"What can ya do?"

"I'm an excellent shot, and I can fight."

"That's not so ladylike, coming from a young woman!"

Ada smiled:

"Who said I was ladylike?"

"My aunt is the best in the world... right after Mom!" pointed Maddie.

Aldo smirked and held out his hand.

"In that case, welcome to the team, Ada! Just so you know, if you join this commando, you owe me 100 Nazi scalps!"

Without hesitation, Ada grasped the outstretched hand and shook it in agreement.

"I will settle that debt, Lieutenant. And I will die trying if I have to!"

"That's what I like to hear!"

"But I want you to promise to look out for Maddie, no matter what!"

"PROMISED!" exclaimed the Basterds.

At that moment, Maddie's face lit up with an adorable smile that seemed to shine through the dim light of the Fontainebleau woods. Now she had nothing to fear from the Germans because now she had found guardian angels armed with guns and baseball bats. 

As for Ada, it was a new life for her that began. She was not a prey anymore. Now, she was the predator. 

The Germans better start running because she won't have mercy. And Ada Mandelbaum always kept her words... 

Thanks for the reading!

Stay tuned for the next chapter!

@sergeant-donny-donowitz​ @marilynmonroefanfics​ @velvet-waltz​ @ocfairygodmother​ @redrosewritingsstuff​ @empress-writes​ @jokersqueenofchaos​ (whom I thank for the German translation) @fandoms-are-my-friends-1321​ @knives-out17​ @multific​ @cherryplasmids​ @askthebasterds​ @nataschalena2​ 

[fandom-necromancer]

155. Part 2

This was prompted by the AO3 user Kira_Katashi! Enjoy!

Fandom: [Prototype] & Assassin’s Creed | Ship: Almond (Alex/Desmond) [part1]   [read on AO3]

Alex sat on top of a destroyed skyscraper, hidden behind the shattered beams and broken flooring. He simply waited there while watching humanity rebuild what was previously known as the Red Zone. Lower Manhattan was still largely a wasteland. In the distance he could see cranes and scaffolding rebuild tower after tower. Who knew, maybe in a few years’ time, everything would be back to normal and the next generation would have already forgotten how narrowly humanity had evaded extinction. It wasn’t without a sense of disbelief when he reminded himself that back then there had actually been two threats, and no one knew about either. Well, the viral outbreak could hardly be hidden away, but had Alex not run into Desmond at Abstergo, he had never known of the solar flare and a conflict between opposing forces that had existed through all times. What else was there he didn’t know about, he asked himself some days. He sighed. He guessed it didn’t have to bother him anymore. His only concern was to eradicate the remaining nests in New York that sporadically popped up. He had to make sure he was the last remaining piece of Blacklight in the world.

Other than that, the only thing for him to do was wait until the assassins needed him as a weapon. He didn’t know how it had first happened, but ever since rescuing Desmond from Abstergo out of mutual gain, they considered him an ally to their course. For now, he hadn’t tried to change that. Once humanity had reconquered the Red Zone, there was nowhere left to go for him. He wasn’t human anymore and with Blackwatch being able to discover any and all particles of Blacklight with their scans he basically had a large target on his back once Lower Manhattan had been cleared. Maybe in the end, he would have to side with the assassins if only for the reason they would take him in and hide him from the world. If it wasn’t just a plot to get a sample from him to infect a fellow assassin and transform them to have a weapon that was truly loyal to their course.

But Desmond had been serious with his offer, right? The man had seemed like he was honest with what he said at least. If he was to believe what he had heard, Desmond wasn’t truly human himself anymore and with having relived the memories of his ancestors, maybe they were more similar than Alex dared to think. Also, it wasn’t as if he could be contained if he really didn’t want to be there. Even Bloodtox would only slow him down at this point. Well, he had time until there was real urgency in the decision, but Alex would rather get it over with while there was still a plan-b for him and the assassins remembered he had saved one of their most valued members.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly missed the phone call. He had only two contacts, Dana and Desmond and he had a feeling it would be the latter this time. He was right: ‘Hey, Alex, there is another briefing scheduled in an hour. Err… Just tell me where I can find you afterwards, so I can keep you updated.’ Alex thought about it for a moment and then cut the line without answering. An hour? He could make it. If only to test the waters with his presumed allies and spare Desmond the way over through a partially infected district.

He climbed to the floor above him and jumped out of the hole in the wall, gliding over to the next building. As he continued his way towards the river, he was thinking about what Desmond had suggested. He could try making his way in with a disguise, but would that really solve anything? In the end, he decided to leave the deserted stores alone and simply head over to their hideout. He scaled the last building and used the height to soar over the East River until he hit Williamsburg Bridge and travelled along its side. From there on he travelled by foot using small streets and staying away from the gates on the larger ones checking those that wanted to leave the district for any sign of the virus. Used to the speed he normally travelled at in the Red Zone, it was agonising walking through the streets slow enough not to raise suspicion. As he finally arrived at the hideout, a building made from simple bricks in an industrial area, he was already late. He walked towards the entrance, noting, but not reacting to a person standing leaned against the wall smoking a cigarette. The human on the other hand stepped into his way. ‘Wait. Who are you?’ Mercer looked the man up and down. His first instinct was to consume, but that would likely lessen his chances with the assassins, so he accepted the delay begrudgingly. ‘I’m expected.’ ‘I still need your name.’ The virus sighed. ‘My name is Mercer. A… friend of Desmond and your brothers used me often enough as their weapon to justify me attending the briefings, does it not?’ He enjoyed seeing the instinctive flinch the man couldn’t quite stifle. ‘The virus?’ ‘You want evidence?’ He couldn’t help his biomass shifting in anger at the unwanted delay. ‘Or will you let me in now?’

Apparently, the man was clever enough not to take him up on that offer and opened the door, leading him through the building to the meeting room. Then he left him alone. Mercer decided to make his first impression count and opened the doors without knocking or further notice, interrupting the meeting and immediately gathering all the attention in the room. He let his eyes fly over the different persons and relaxed a bit as he saw Desmond. He was surprised as the man pulled an empty chair back for him and quickly made his way over. As soon as he had sat down, the meeting continued as if nothing had happened and the few glances his way stopped after a while.

‘I’m glad you came’, Desmond whispered, leaning over a bit. ‘Although you won’t gain points with my dad by being late.’ ‘I don’t really care for that’, Alex grumbled. ‘Well, you have mine, then.’ Desmond grinned at him, before he returned his attention back to the briefing. ‘Desmond, how’s the team with the new network?’ ‘Dana’s making progress’, the man answered. Alex perked up at the mention of his sister. He didn’t actually know what she was doing here. ‘We planned on getting the bugs positioned in the city by the end of the week.’ ‘Mercer, how’s the situation in Manhattan?’ Alex looked up, not quite expected to be asked yet. ‘Err… The hum- the people of New York have begun rebuilding. I’m keeping an eye on the infected and at the moment there are no nests that survived my last hunt.’ ‘Good. How difficult would it be to infiltrate the working crew to bug their systems during construction.’ ‘Quite easy. They take everyone who is brave enough to go into the Red Zone. Most of the workers don’t know each other.’ ‘Alright. Desmond and Mercer, as soon as those bugs are ready, it’s your job to distribute them.’ ‘Understood’, Desmond answered, leaning back. The rest of the briefing went on without Mercer being addressed at any time. Still, he was impressed with how little his presence was questioned. Sure, a few people stared, but that was expected.

‘Ahh, so that’s over with!’, Desmond sighed as he went outside, stretching. ‘I hate these briefings…’ ‘Couldn’t say I enjoyed it, either’, Alex nodded. ‘At least your people didn’t seem too bothered with a mass murder in their rows.’ ‘Too be honest, I did some cultivation of your image here… It was only me, Shaun and Rebecca against Abstergo for a long time. With me being the one destined to saving the world and you being the person who saved me, I think they have to at least pretend to like you. Also, Dana already did great work, so you joining isn’t too sudden for them. But come on, I’ll show you your room!’ ‘My… room?’ ‘Sure. You… You are staying right? I mean, why else the sudden change with the briefings?’ Alex still looked sceptical and Desmond continued: ‘We kept you a room vacant that’s far from the others’. I know you like it secluded.’ ‘I… do.’

Desmond led him through the building past a gym and weapons range as well as sleeping quarters, up two flights of stairs until they were standing under the roof. It was a narrow chamber with a bed, a desk and its own bathroom. Not that Alex needed anything of that, but it was a nice touch. ‘You can use this room, if you want. If you want to stay.’ Alex stood there and contemplated. It sure beat his draughty shelter in the collapsed skyscraper. Maybe he would test it out for a while and go back when it didn’t feel right. Slowly he nodded. ‘It will take time adapting to it, but I will try.’

Desmond smiled at him and patted his shoulder companionable. ‘Then welcome home.’

[yetremains]

Another bad night chokes him worse than the cigarette smoke filling in his lungs, inducing a deep furrow and a coughing fit. More intrusive thoughts that invade his mind are ruthless, relentless, cruel and cold, as they perpetuate as he sits alone at his desk, with throbbing migraine, lest he has to face all these compiled paperworks. All of his demons are mighty and powerful, and in the throes of dark visions that populate the afflicted Commander's subconscious, he attempts to perceive and quell the irregular rhythm of his heart, not to hear the pain in his chest. How he finds himself cradling bloated carcasses of the dead, limbs sprawled and broken and heads unrecognizable as stitched fleshy skin squirm beneath his hands, as they tremble and paralyze. Heat rises from his neck, reaching his ears, cheeks, temple, and forehead. It's not that big of a deal - he tells himself, albeit futilely. It's fine. Hanzo Hasashi's poker face has gotten scarily good, but he doubts it will escape Yang's cognizance as his gaze diverts from the white and black of paper to the blur of her movement.

The emptiness of the dark midnight hours alone had become something rather foreign since Yang had taken the willing dive with Hanzo into being together, it has been effortless to fall into the routine. There were of course times of tension and hard words, all close people had them, but it did not break those of the stronger heart. Ever ready to comfort even after such things. It was uneasy being left in such silent lacking, having gotten so comfortable and used too being completely open and candid with one another. However, as it droned on wards, and the lack of her companion was more and more concerning. It wasn't hard to understand rather swiftly that something was wrong, very wrong, of course prompting the woman to promptly go searching. It was only something that had to truly be deep and heavy for Hanzo to not speak of at first, knowing him as well as she did now. Internalizing while trying to over come all at once, how ironic that they shared this habit at times. Perhaps that was one reason they meld so well, understanding the state of mind upon one another, the intimate cracks of horrid outcomes and torments that claw at the mental strengths and weakness in equal measure.

Movements drawn from memory, of instinct, guide the quiet footfalls of the Second In Command. Everything was silent and empty at this hour with minimal lights at the Special Forces compounds. The closest home many here had now, and knowing the lay out incredibly well. It was no time at all that allowed Yang to find Commander Hasashi in his office, a lit cigarette wafting smoke into the air, while the man himself leans over his papers, trying to focus. But as she moved into the room quickly, that deep gaze that speaks volumes locks onto her form, and suddenly it’s a spark of knowing. The expression may be stoic and unflinching, no one would really question it, for Hanzo was always one to keep the focus forward and not give away a single thing. The dark eyes however are what catch the most attention here in now, the pupils were not quite right, darker than normal circles under the gaze. Deep and tired. Like looking into darkened pools for answers, the swirling depths of which unknown too all but those familiar. The heart ached and longed to take action, pulling a concerned frown onto Talia’s expression as her form drew closer, a moth too a flame really. Witnessing this ever recognizable reflection that shone from that dark eyed gaze, one that had been seen in the hospital rooms, and several times since.

Soft hands, bare and without the usual gloves, gently reach out to carefully take hold of Hanzo’s cheeks, delicate touch ever soft while brushing thumbs across his skin, for he was the most intricate and amazing rose that could possibly have bloomed within her hearts garden. To see such agony and sorrow would without fail wish her to do everything possible to chase away the infernal demons that prowled within the subconscious, even temporarily. Nothing could truly be permanent for the damages were long since done to leave the scars that ran deeper than any ravine torn into the earth. “Focus upon me, ハートファイア . Breathe... Unload your weights to free your self, speak.” The voice spoken was soft as a whisper, a reminder and a vocal caress of affection on her words. Talia was here and would be here to stay, would never shy away or abandon Hanzo in his time of need. Any battle or war zone had never chased the loyal soldier away, nor would this self fought battle ground. The shorter form leaning forwards as to press her forehead against his own. “Do not let your self spiral, remember? Whatever has set it’s fangs deep in you, tell me. I’ll be your beacon of glowing comfort in that encroaching darkness.”

[quentinsquill]

“Eliot Waugh and the Case of the Cocooned Conjurers”: Chapter 3

Chapter three is below, or you can read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218352/chapters/40982306

CHAPTER THREE: Eliot Waugh

 One of the most interesting aspects of being a magician in a time where so many immigrants were pouring into New York City was the old beliefs and superstitions they brought with them from their homelands. They came to Margo’s sundries shop every day for herbs to cure everything from bunions to headaches to expelling evil spirits from their hovels. Newly-displaced Brits seemed to be the most common of the latter, with their Victorian beliefs and strange preoccupation of the dead. As I lingered at the sundries counter and observed my new companion, Dr. Coldwater, examine Margo’s wares, a non-magical woman in her thirties begged her to help contact the soul of her six-year-old son who had died of smallpox the year before, while the family still lived in London.

 “He never did anyone no harm,” the mother was sobbing as she showed Margo a silver gelatin memento mori print of a young boy dressed in his best and laid out on a tatty-looking sofa, flowers tucked in one dead fist, his cheeks tinted pink by the photographer. “It weren’t fair he died, and just to hear his sweet voice once more would ease this awful grief!”

 My good friend was mostly unmoved and gave the women a look that I knew meant she was about to dish out a healthy dose of honesty. Whether this was to Margo’s credit I could never deice—after all, she could have made a fortune off people’s ignorance.

 “Death, madame, does not discriminate between the innocent and the wicked. It takes both equally. It is unfortunate but true.” She reached out and closed the tin cover of the woman’s daguerreotype, but without harshness. “Also, I am not a medium, and I’ll tell you that those who tell you they can reach beyond that veil are slinging more dung than those who clean up after the carriages in the street.” She moved from behind the counter as the woman’s eyes pooled with fresh tears. “However, I do have some herbs you can brew into a lovely, sleepy tea and simmer in hot water for the kitchen or bedroom. The scents will help ease your mind, if only for a while.” She led her customer toward the back of the shop as Dr. Coldwater made his way back to my side.

 “Do you think non-magical adepts would believe it if we told them that contacting the dead is no easier for us than it is for them?” He asked quietly, and I pulled my cigarette case from the inner pocket of my vest.

 “Doubtful. It has been my experience, in fact, that magical adept or no, people believe what they choose to.” I offered him the case, but the somber young healer shook his head.

 “No thank you. But the devil of it is, some experienced healers could heal smallpox and other diseases that plague children, but our laws forbid us from interfering with the progression of science.”

 “Would you have cured that woman’s child, had you been there?” I asked. After a moment, the doctor shook his head.

“Healing isn’t as simple as some in our community think it is, Mr. Waugh. Even when a spell cures an illness, there is always a price to pay.” I watched as a tremor rippled through his lean shoulders; the right one had a slight dip a few inches away from where it met the arm, something few likely noticed. He noticed me observing him though, and lifted his chin with an angry jerk.

 “It’s very rude to stare,” He said, and I lit my cigarette.

 “Odd that you’re so defensive about something most would carry as a sign of honor and service.”

 The doctor absolutely bristled.

 “And what did you do in the war, sir?” His delivery was like that of a porcupine giving a snoutful of quills to an overly-curious hound.

 “I was a spy for the aside of white magic. The good guys, if you will.”

 Dr. Coldwater’s expression shifted from outrage to guarded curiosity.

 “You don’t strike me as particularly inconspicuous. I noticed you right away when I came to inspect that body last night.”

 “I’m flattered,” I replied, and the doctor’s smooth cheeks went pink—a sight I found unusually intriguing. He was surely not yet thirty, although his silver-white hair and cane likely caused people to dismiss him as an elderly man.

 “I simply meant—” He gestured toward me. “You’re quite tall and might be noticed easily.”

 “I have a means of concealing myself, depending on the information I want to gather. Margo and I both specialize in physical magic and she’s especially talented with manipulating spell ingredients.” I blew out a plume of smoke. “We met during the war, and I find her to be loyal and intelligent—much more so than many of her gender.”

 Margo came back to us then, having sent her customer off with a soothing tea and some lavender smudge.

 “Can I just say I am so glad my grandparents came here before my parents were born so I don’t have all these appalling superstitions these immigrants have?”

 “It’s not like they can help what they’re taught,” Dr. Coldwater spoke up, and Margo frowned.

 “If I felt that way, I wouldn’t be helping any of them. It just amazes me what they believe!” She glanced at her jeweled watch. “It’s nearly and afternoon tea is one English tradition I can appreciate. If you want to wash up, Dr. Coldwater, I have a small basin and pitcher in a back room to your left.”

 “Thank you.” He headed toward the rear of the store as Margo turned the closed side of her door sign toward the street.

 “So, what do you think of him?” She asked, and I lifted a shoulder.

 “He’s an odd sort of fellow—empathetic, surely, and rather reticent about his time in the war.”

 “You saw some horrors yourself,” Margo pointed out, and I nodded. Usually, a few shots of strong scotch or a dose of laudanum were enough to put the ghosts to rest—at least temporarily. However, judging by Dr. Coldwater’s appearance, he’d seen more battles than I had during my time as a spy.

 “I saw someone who looked like him once,” Margo said, lowering her voice. “When the medical corps ordered some spell ingredients for their hospital in Brooklyn.”

 I passed her my cigarette case and she helped herself to a roll of silk-cut French tobacco, lighting it with a swift hand motion.

 “It was only a few days after we’d declared victory,” she continued, a plume of smoke escaping from between her lips, which were painted rose pink. “So the hospital was full. I delivered the ingredients to the head nurse of the recovery ward, and—” Here, she lowered her voice further. “And in one of the beds was a young man with that same kind of hair. Not really white, but more silver, and he was missing both his eyes. Not like they’d been put out by a weapon because that would have still left the sockets. They were gone completely, like they’d been erased. I never saw anything like that before. The nurse told me he’d been in a battle in the fairy realm and he’d managed to make it back, but it had cost him his eyes and several internal organs. When I went back to make the next delivery, there was another magician in that bed. The one who’d been fairy-touched had died.”

 “I don’t doubt your account, Margo. But the fairy-touched rarely survive a return from that realm, and those who do usually do not live long to tell what they saw there.”

 “I know. But I swear, Dr. Coldwater has the look of that man I saw!”

 The man in question emerged from the back room then, looking refreshed. I trained my eyes on him with purpose as he approached. Under the light from the store’s three chandeliers, I saw that his hair was indeed silver and not the chalky white of premature age, and that while a few lines around his eyes told a tale of broken sleep, there were no other signs the war had caused him to age before his time.

 Could Margo be right? I asked myself. Had this odd little fellow with empathy for both magical and non-magical people survived a battle in the fabled and, by all accounts, terrifying fairy realm? It didn’t seem possible, yet here he was, moving along doggedly with his cane. I felt a smile grow on my lips: what a stubborn, determined figure he cut!

 “Shall we take some tea upstairs?” I asked as he reached us. “We have a long evening ahead of us, and Inspector Fogg will expect us not to tarry.”

[haribeaux]

With All Awry

by Blair Bidmead

(First Published in, the now out-of-print charity anthology, ‘Mythmakers Presents: Golden Years 1963-2013′)

Entry 1 – Thoughts

Even a broken time-machine can move through time. Only in one direction. A second at a time. For once I think Reg is right. History is eating us alive.  

I hope that my notes, scrawled on these damp pages can soak up the remainder of my leaking memories.

I fear I have little left to retain.

Things I am sure of are few. At this moment I can say in all confidence that I am definitely sat, naked in a bath of lukewarm water. But where is this bath located? It seems like a flat in Camden Town, North London. The date, according to the newspaper I am leaning on, is September 27th, 1969.

But, is it? Everything is wrong. The sky is blood red. Night and day are indistinguishable, as though they have been crushed together.

A dream reality. A waking nightmare. So... fractured. Vague.

Enough of this! I must focus on certainties.

As far as I can tell, there is only one certainty left in my possession; the fact that I am the Doctor.

(Reg has burst in - No lock on the bathroom door. He’s ranting. I must discuss the situation with him immediately)

Entry 2 – Notes on Reg

My flatmate is a tall, lugubrious figure. Well spoken with an acerbic turn of phrase. His clothes are fine, somewhat theatrical and have seen better days. But he, like my surroundings, seems... insubstantial. Unfinished.

There are times when I feel he is my closest, most loyal companion. Sometimes it’s hard to discern where I end and he begins. But other times it’s as though he doesn’t exist at all.

No. Concentrate. What just happened? I am out of the bath now. I’m in a dressing gown, a towel around my shoulders, in my bedroom. Check your notes, Doctor!

Yes! Reg came into the bathroom! He was complaining about the cold. He said we had a visitor. Did he say it was his auntie? His cousin?

He said her name was... What was it?

I’m going to speak to her.

Entry 3 – The visitor

She’s just left. I can still smell her perfume. She was... real.

More than real.

I walked into the lounge and caught sight of myself in large mirror above the fireplace. I looked pale and gaunt. Reg was there too, a spectral, sketch-of-a- man haunting the far corner of the room.

The visitor was not like us. She stood in sharp focus, while all around her was a dingy, grey blur. Shining with colour. Dressed in silver catsuit with shocking pink belt, boots and gloves, her honey-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her smile was devastating. Disarming. Was this our jailer? Will never be set free?

Clearly, I was known to her. She took my hands and sat me next to her on the couch. She looked into my eyes, concern was etched across her face. We spoke. About what!? It’s fading. I was brought here for my own safety, she said.

She wants to help. She’s trying to help. But the sadness in her eyes betrays the fact that she doesn’t think she can.

There was more. I am sure there was more! She said I was safe, but I feel in considerable danger here. I can’t remember her leaving. Her name! I forgot to ask her name!

Reg says he feels unusual and wants to go outside.

Entry 4 - Outside

Reg and I are in agreement. We’re going to escape.

I haven’t seen a soul since we left the flat. The streets are eerily quiet. There’s a background drone, behind the silence. I’m not sure if that is coming from inside my head or the outside world. Come to think of it, perhaps this “outside world” is inside my head!?A disconcerting thought. My head isn’t the most reliable container for anything at the moment. Hence these notes.  

Are they helping?

I’m lost again. What was I doing? I’m sitting on a park bench with Reg. The sky looks like doomsday. Everything has a crimson tinge. No one else in the park. We need to get away. Rejuvenate.

Escape! Yes, that was the plan. Take the car. Leave the city.

We have a car?

I have a car.

Entry 5 – The getaway

The number plate on the jag is “WHO 0”. Is that significant?

I’m the designated driver, it seems. I have just left Reg’s relative’s house and am waiting for him to join me in the car. We came here because... because, the relative had the means to help us in our escape bid? I think that’s right.

The streets were deserted on the drive over. Despite its dilapidated appearance, the jag handles reasonably well. The relative (Reg’s auntie?) is insane. A little old lady in layers of colourful knitwear, her house smelled of cigarettes and years of accumulated dust. But the most disturbing thing about her was that she had substance. She was like the blonde woman who visited us earlier. Real.

Auntie didn’t seem very happy to see us. She was ranting about some "oaf" who had ruined her day. Reg wanted to speak to her in private and told me to wait in the car. The cigarette smell lingers on my velvet coat. It reminds me of... something. Someone?

I remember complaining about that smell. In the console room. A man, smoking in a leather jacket. A friend? Yes! I had a friend! He smoked! Is this my second certainty?

I am the Doctor and I have a friend called... I can't remember. That's dangerously close to reassuring.

Reg is back. I’m starting the engine.

Entry 6 – The cottage

Coming here was a mistake. The city was vague enough, but the countryside is nebulous to the point of almost total absence. Red light and black shadow. The car brought me to the very edge of this equivocal world. Here, teetering on the brink of existence stands this grim cottage where I now sit.

Alone, I scratch out these notes, a ritual to sustain what remains of my corporeal state. Should I just stop?

Reg! Reg is sitting across the table from me, swigging a bottle of wine! He wasn’t there a second ago. Or did I just forget him? He looks like a bad photocopy of a cartoon vampire. I dread to think how I look to him. I am not the man I was. Reg seems to have abandoned any hope he possessed. He was expecting to find something here. He's cursing his aunt, his cousins. His fate.

Who am I? I am the Doctor and I have a friend. A friend who smokes and I don't approve. A friend who cares for my well-being. A friend who has... compassion.

Obviously. (What made me say that?)

If you exist. If you are my friend, I need help. All that’s left of me is here on these tattered sheets of paper. I am almost gone.

Reg says he’s cold. We need to light the fire.

Entry 7 – Dreams within dreams

I have woken up in a big brass bed after a fitful night’s sleep. I am still at the bleak hovel in the country. Unsettling dreams made all the more disturbing by the fact they are so akin to my waking world. Reg’s auntie haunted me, wondering if we could allow ourselves an indiscretion. I strenuously declined the invitation.

At one point, Reg came into the room with a shot gun. Did this actually happen? He stared out of the window and urged me to listen.

“Time,” he said. “Time wants to get in.”

It appears we are under siege. The background drone seems louder. More palpable. I can’t stay here. Too exposed.

I can hear clattering from the kitchen. Hopefully it’s just Reg preparing breakfast.

Send me a sign. Before I fade away.

Clap your hands! “I do believe in Doctors!”

Entry 8 – Telegram

During breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Reg and I exchanged a concerned glance. I tentatively opened the door to find on the doorstep, the Grim Reaper dressed as a postman. Silently, he held out an envelope. I snatched it from his grasp and slammed the door. It was a telegram addressed to me from someone called... Fitz.

Fitz! That’s my friend's name!

DOCTOR ITS REALLY ME (STOP) I AM SAFE SO DONT WORRY (STOP) TOO MUCH TO EXPLAIN BUT BASICALLY ITS OVER (STOP) YOU STOPPED IT (STOP) I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU DID BUT IT WORKED (STOP) THE WAR IS OVER (STOP) YOU WERE MESSED UP PRETTY BAD (STOP) THE FACTION TOOK YOU IN (STOP) THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS MY FRIEND I GUESS (STOP) THEY SAID SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR BIODATA BEING HIGHLY TOXIC TO HISTORY (STOP) THEY HAVE BEEN TRYING TO DECONTAMINATE YOU (STOP) THEY MODIFIED A REMEMBRANCE TANK (STOP) THEY HAVE TRIED EVERYTHING (STOP) BUT THEY ARE ABOUT TO GIVE UP ON YOU (STOP) DON'T WORRY I AM NOT GIVING UP (STOP) HELP IS COMING (STOP) THEY MAY HAVE SPOKE YO YOU ALREADY (STOP) I SENT YOU SOMETHING TANGIBLE TO FOCUS ON (STOP) MY LEATHER JACKET IS IN THE HALL OF THE CAMDEN FLAT (STOP) THE TARDIS KEY IS IN THE INSIDE POCKET (STOP) GO TO EARL'S COURT TUBE STATION (STOP) IF ALL GOES WELL THE TARDIS SHOULD BE THERE WAITING FOR YOU (STOP) DONT FORGET TO KEEP TAKING NOTES (STOP) ITS VERY IMPORTANT APPARENTLY (STOP) SEE YOU SOON (STOP) LOVE FITZ (STOP)

I show Reg the telegram. He reads it and congratulates me with a grim smile.

We must leave immediately.

Entry 9 – M1, heading south

To make time, Reg is driving while I write. The M1 is an endless, stripe of shadow stretching ahead of us. Behind, the motorway dissolves into nothing. A swirling black and red vortex surrounds us. Things are falling apart.

I have reread Fitz's telegram over and over. It’s definitely him. I can’t quite picture his face, but his voice is clear and distinct. The accent, the intonation; It's Fitz Kriener alright! The rest of the message rings true, even if I still can’t remember the specifics.

The TARDIS! That really does ring a cloister bell! Just seeing those six capital letters on the page make me feel safer somehow. What is it?

I have been evacuated from time, but evacuated to where? How can anything outside of time be counted as a ‘place’ at all? I am outside reality. What does that make me? A fiction?

He said that help was coming, that I may have spoken to them already. Could he mean the woman in the silver catsuit?

No matter. I have a course of action and all my questions will be answered later. Reg points out of the window and Watford Gap services rears up from the maelstrom.

Not far now.

Entry 10- Help

Reading back over my notes, the woman in the silver catsuit and Reg’s auntie both seem likely candidates for this 'help' that Fitz mentioned. I wish I could remember more of my conversation with the blonde woman. Why was Reg so eager to speak to his auntie alone? What could have prevented them from freeing us?

I have been edited from the story of time, made unreal and woven into a different tale. Maybe too much of me was lost in the transition? I have become too engrained in the story. It must be played out to the end.

No other cars on the motorway or as we join the north circular into London. The city is a mausoleum.

Reg is reticent and almost transparent. The jag is running on fumes.

I'll have to catch a train back to reality.

Entry 11- Visitors

Something strange has happened. We’re back at the flat in Camden. I walked into the bathroom and found a stranger taking a bath. A man I have never seen before with a crew-cut and a cheery smile. He greeted me with an affable “Hello” which, for some reason, terrified me. I ran to my bedroom, only to find the woman in the silver catsuit already there, although her catsuit was on the floor and she was in my bed, half asleep. She apologised, saying hadn’t expected to find me here.

Who was the enormous Northerner in the bath? What was she doing here? I demanded to know!  

She said it didn’t matter, that she would leave and then started to search around for her clothes.

(They both sound like they are from the North. Is that significant? North of where?)

I went through to the lounge and found Reg opening a bottle of wine and reading the post. An overwhelming sense of dread enveloped me. I quickly took notes.

She’s leaving. She is standing in the doorway now, offering a sad smile. She blows me a kiss and then hurries out of the flat.  

Reg gives a derisive snort.

I can hear singing from the bathroom. He's still here!? Why didn't he leave with her!?

It's all slipping away. I need to study my notes

Entry 12- Eviction

The Faction have been and gone. They want us to leave. That's alright with me. I just need... something. What was it again?

Entry 13 - The jacket

The man in the bath has gone. I can't find Fitz's jacket in the hall. Reg swears he saw the jacket when we he answered the door to the Faction. Reg is now steaming drunk. It's all going wrong!

"He took it!" Reg shouted, over and over. "He took Fitz's jacket!" I asked him if he meant the man in the bath.

Reg gave me the strangest look and muttered; "It's not a bath, you idiot."

He said he'll walk me to the station.

Entry 14- Goodbye Reg

And there he goes, swigging his bottle of Mersault ’96, sauntering off across the park. With every step, Reg is fading before my eyes. He’s a ghost, then an outline, then nothing at all. I shall miss you, Reg, even though I was never sure if you really existed at all. I had tried to persuade him to come with me. He said it was impossible. I didn’t ask why, I just knew he was right.

The city itself is fading now, evaporating all around me. All that’s remains is the park bench I am sitting on and the path I must take, towards the tube. I can see the light from the station’s sign beckoning me.

Time to go.

Entry 15 – Departure

The platform is dimly lit and deathly silent. When did the background hum stop? I’ve gone over all my notes and reread Fitz's telegram. These pages are the sum total of my knowledge. There’s so little of me, just a list of confusing events and my will to continue.

No, I was forgetting the most important part. I am the Doctor and I have a friend called Fitz Kriener. Through the doubt and confusion, with all awry, he reached out for me. He told me I had succeeded. I stopped a war. If it were all to end here, it would all still be worth it. I would count for something.

The tracks are rattling. A tube train slowly emerges from the tunnel.

Last Entry - Earl's Court

I reached street level and I saw the TARDIS. She dissolved before my eyes. The roar of her engines filled me with an indescribable joy. As the sound slowly faded, the sense of loss that followed was absolute.

The light is fading.

[sosaidthedragon]

Run

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: T (Some violence)

Pairing: None

It was just too easy.

Rumors that the Leaf had gotten weak over the last few years of peace were certainly well founded. Their genin were pathetic, kittens trying to battle a lion with useless claws and tiny fangs, too prideful to realize they were massively outmatched. Their sensei, the supposedly fearsome Rampaging Beast, had lost a good deal of her strength to complacency, unable to break through the duo of unimpressive ex-jonin sent to keep her busy. He hoped the two didn't kill her - he had paid them well to keep her alive, so that he could be the one to claim her head.

Only one of the children held any measure of promise, but even he was mediocre at best, certainly not worth keeping alive. The other boy was skittish and weak, distracted by his own cowardice but unable to run on his shattered ankle, and the girl had too much pride in her amateur genjutsu, her only backup - a surujin - rendered useless by a well placed kunai in the abdomen. The one he held by the throat was the only one to put up a halfway decent fight, and he might have considered taking the boy on as his apprentice, if he wasn't so sickeningly loyal to his pathetic village.

What a waste. Even through the hand that closed around his windpipe, he gasped out insults - the boy had enough of a spine to look his killer in the eye and spit in his face.

Ronshu was about to tighten his grip just enough to snap the boy's neck, when the child began to grin. His lips pulled back from his bloody teeth as his body shook with laughter it didn't have enough breath to give sound to. He dropped the boy onto the grass, where he landed on his back with a weak thud, gasping desperately before he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"Do you find death amusing, boy?"

"N-not my death, no." He wheezed, as he slowly began to crawl backwards. "But yours?"

"And just who is going to kill me? One of you pathetic whelps?"

The boy shook his head, a small smile on his face as his back finally hit the base of a tree.

"Do you think your sensei is going to save you?" He snorted. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Byakukoku brothers have already taken her head. Your precious sensei has gotten weak, just like your pathetic village, if those two can challenge her."

"Arara, who are you talking about?" A woman's voice drawled from just within the treeline, though Ronshu could not pinpoint exactly where. "You don't mean these two, do you? Because I'd hardly call them a challenge."

He spun around as the voice came closer, nearly at his ear. Just within the small clearing was Kedamonoshu, scuffed but apparently unharmed. She held the throats of the Byakukoku brothers in either hand as if they weighed nothing at all, their bodies limp, but alive. They would not remain that way for long, however, as she had not seen fit to tie off what remained of their severed arms, which was just as well, as far as Ronshu was concerned. The loss of a limb would cripple any shinobi, but with the their dominant hands removed, the jutsu the brothers relied on became impossible for them to use.

They were worthless - just as worthless as her pathetic students.

"Saburo, Ohaku, take Nouga to the healer." She commanded, as the two bodies dropped to the grass with a wet thud. "You did well, but I'll handle the rest."

Ronshu made no effort to stop the trio. There was little point - the nearest healer was in that pathetic little village up the road, and the few ninja who protected it would pose no threat to him. He would let them go, let them think their sensei would defeat him, before he arrived to finish the job with her head in his hands. Let their last moments be filled with horror and hopelessness, he decided, for being so weak.

"I wouldn't run, if I were you." The girl stated as the boy gathered her into his arms.

"What was that, brat?"

"It'll just make it worse for you if you do." The one with the broken leg warned, his tone ominous, even as he leaned weakly on his companion.

The brats still needed the ego beaten out of them, he decided. Instead of allow them to run off as he intended, he flung several kunai at them - he would make them stay and watch as he tore their worthless leader to pieces. A final lesson for their short, miserable little lives. Laden with the weight of his two injured comrades, the boy couldn't have moved if he wanted to, but to Ronshu's irritation, he did not drop his obnoxious little smirk, even as the weapons flew towards his legs.

The kunoichi was suddenly in front of them. She had shown no such speed when he struck alongside the brothers - he had easily been able to track her movements then, but he had not even realized she had moved until his eyes reconciled the sight in front of him. The kunai scattered uselessly as they were deflected by a single, deft swipe of her hand that cut through the air with an audible whisper of force.

"Get going, Saburo."

The boy followed her instructions, and rushed off as fast as he could manage with his comrade's extra weight. Ronshu considered striking at his retreating back, but his plan to bring them her head sounded quite pleasant - the shock and horror on their faces would be all the more extreme after that little display. With one hand still stuck deeply in her pocket, Kedamonoshu maintained her position between them, head cocked slightly as she listened for their movements, until well after they had left his range of perception.

Finally, she decided they were far enough away, and her eyes cut back towards him. Where there had been irritation and concern before, there was nothing - her face, her posture, her eyes all gave him no indication of her emotions, and that sent an unexpected chill down his spine he tried to ignore. He had seen that stare only once before, in the face of the hunter-ninja who had nearly killed him all those years ago. He could still remember the man's final moments, after Ronshu had ripped off his mask and tore his abdomen apart with his blade.

His death had been the only one Ronshu had not drawn satisfaction from.

He opened his mouth to taunt her - like hell he was going to be denied the pleasure of seeing her fear as he killed her - but was interrupted before he could speak.

"Shut up," Kedamonoshu demanded. "And start running."

It was dusk when Saburo spotted the familiar figure of his sensei on the path towards the clinic. Even though she was shadowed in the dying light of the sun, he could tell she was unharmed, her hands crammed in her pockets as if it was just another day.

"How are they?"

"They'll be alright in a few weeks." He shrugged one shoulder, the ribs on his other side too sore to move. "There's a farmer heading to Konoha in a couple days - says we can ride with him. They should be good to move by then."

Mitsume nodded and flopped down onto the crate beside him, legs outstretched. She patted her pockets for a moment, before she produced a thin metal box, and plucked a long cigarette from inside. He observed the plume of smoke that poured from her lips with a heaving sigh, before he turned his attention back to the store across from him.

"Don't tell Guy, alright?" She stated as she held her hand out towards him, cigarette burning between her fingers. "Otherwise I'll never hear the end of it."

He glanced at her briefly, but she was staring off herself, and he decided to take the roll of paper. The smoke burned, and he coughed slightly, before he forced the agonizing rumble back down and took a second breath of the burning tobacco, before he passed it back to her. They sat in silence for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth, until it ran down to the filter, and she stubbed it out with the heel of her sandal. She rose and moved to head inside the clinic, scratching the back of her neck.

"He dead?"

He didn't need to ask, but he needed to hear her say it. She paused, the door half open, and eyed him oddly for a moment. Then she nodded, and disappeared inside. He reached down, and plucked another cigarette from the tin she left sitting on the crates as he relaxed against the clinic wall.

"Good."

[tappedrpg]

Under the cut you’ll find a SAMPLE APPLICATION, provided by the lovely Christine ( @chrysalis-writes ), who helped loads while putting this roleplay together, including in making all the promo and admin graphics! They’ll be playing Laurel Silva, a Gravemaker, and have graciously provided their application for you all to read over to give you an idea of what to do in yours! I hope that it helps anyone who might need it! 

OUT OF CHARACTER,

NAME. Christine AGE. 24 PRONOUNS. they/them TIMEZONE. currently EST, usually GMT ACTIVITY LEVEL. fairly high; I’m on break right now so I’m online most of the time and will do replies at least every other day ANYTHING ELSE. nope!

IN CHARACTER - GENERAL,

FULL CHARACTER NAME. Laurel Silva, goes primarily by her surname AGE AND BIRTHDAY. 22; born 27 October PRONOUNS AND GENDER IDENTITY. she/her, trans female YEAR AND COURSE OF STUDY. fourth year, history major with a minor in sociology

IN CHARACTER - DEVELOPMENT,

PERSONALITY OVERVIEW.

vices→     addictive – it’s not just bad things. sure, it’s alcohol, it’s cigarettes, it’s sex, its getting into fights with drunk jocks she should by now means be able to win and poking at the bruises the next morning. but Silva can get addicted to anything. to the thick tome of a history book she’s reading for class. to the hidden joy of keeping a really good secret. to the way Beaux smiles at her when pulls her entire duvet off her bed and wears it around the apartment like a cape all morning. when Silva gets something she wants, she doesn’t stop wanting it, not ever. she never gets enough. she restless. she is  i n s a t i a b l e.     possessive – not even two sides of the same coin. once she gets something, it is hers, and only hers, and she will fight tooth and nail to ensure it stays that way. from possessions to people to accolades of any kind. she gets jealous easily, and resentful even more easily once she makes it to jealousy. she holds a grudge, when you’ve taken something from her, or hurt something that was, at any point in time, hers.     confrontational – there’s no difference, for Silva, between an academic debate and a fistfight, and she slips into both with an unsettling ease. one minute she’s laughing with you and the next, you’re not quite sure what you’ve said, but she’s got you in a chokehold until you take it back. when she hears something she doesn’t agree with, she can never just let it slide; she’ll let you know, and she’ll let everyone around you know that she’s letting you know, while she’s at it.     inconsiderate – it’s not that she’s bad at reading emotions, she’s not. it’s just that she can’t be fucked to take them into consideration before she speaks. she spent too many years trying to make herself smaller, take up less room, turn herself into something else just to convenience those around her. she’s done with that. never again.

virtues→     loyal – it’s difficult to gain Silva’s devotion, but those who have it never need worry about losing it. she’s loyal to a fault, to the point of almost allowing others to think for her. some people have accused her of being more guard dog than person, and sure, maybe they aren’t so wrong about that. to Beaux, to the Gravemakers, she would do anything she was asked, no matter what it meant to her.     reliable –  if she says she will do something, she will do it. it’s as simple as that. she’s not in the practice of lying, and her bluntness means that if you’ve asked too much, she’ll tell you before she lets you get your hopes up. she doesn’t agree to much, but she’s true to her word when she does, and she’s thorough as hell.     self-reliant – she’s always had to do things for herself. half a sort of if you want the job done, do it yourself mentality and half a survival mechanic, knowing that no one around her, growing up, could be relied upon for anything. she makes it a point not to ask anyone around her of anything, not to let her self-worth or any piece of her life be dictated on anyone else’s terms but her own.     magnetic – she’s a bitch, yes, and a miserable one at that sometimes, rough around the edges with a sharp tongue and very little self-preservational instinct, but there’s something about her that makes people want to be around her. she’s fun. she’s energetic and tenacious and brutally honest in a way that’s almost refreshing.

zodiac→ scorpio (forceful, magnetic, jealous, obstinate) MBTI type→ ENFP, the champion (intuitive, risk-taking, easily bored) enneagram type→ type eight, the challenger (assertive, protective, resourceful, controlling, confrontational, bad-tempered) cardinal sin→ envy heavenly virtue→ dilligence

HISTORY AND DEFINING MOMENTS.

→ she is born into money, her father the heir to an old-money fortune he doesn’t know what to do with, doesn’t know how to manage. her grandfather is ill, unable to manage anything on his own, even bathing himself, and no one is surprised when her father just can’t cut it in the cut-throat world of business without anyone there to bail him out.

he is a disgraced man, by the time she knows that he exists as anything outside of being a thing that sometimes feeds her, a thing that sometimes kisses her forehead or holds her, a thing that she calls dad. he lives at the bottom of a bottle and all of his despair is turned inwards, a hollow shell of a man. he is a body with a spirit disintegrating inside of it, while her grandfather who lives with them is the opposite: logical and opinionated, his mind quick to move, and trapped in the frail body of a much older man. her only inheritance is that she is the third link in this chain: if one is all mind and one is all body, what does that leave for her?

→ her mother leaves when she is three, sneaking out with just a suitcase in the dead of the night, so instead of a mother, Silva grows up with her closet, the untouched shrine to a woman who once lived there, dresses still wrapped in dry-cleaner plastic, gathering dust as the years pass by. she is a left-behind thing, and she whiles away the hours in that tomb, draping herself in other left-behind things, draping herself in old dresses, shuffling through it all in too-high heels, smearing makeup across her face like finger paints.

when she is thirteen and tall enough she starts wearing the dresses and heels and makeup out, first slipping from the closet down the hall to her bedroom, then wearing it out to parties, spiriting it away in a backpack and putting it on in the bathroom. by fifteen, she grows bold, but she’s surprised when she sits down at the table in her mother’s old dress and her father does not flinch, does not even bat an eye. he never called her much, anyway, so there’s no need to ask him to call her by another name.

→ it turns out that she is all spirit, strong-willed and wild. she does not long for the fortune her family has lost, not the way her father and her grandfather do. she never knew life before the Silva fortune dried up, so she has nothing to miss, no delusions of luxury or grandeur. she explores the world with wonder and awe until her grandfather sternly tells her that she has no idea what happiness is, that she will never know success thanks to her foolish father.

he teaches her a hard lesson: that ownership is everything and status will get you everywhere. that she is nothing of her own volition. she believes him, for a while, for too long, for long enough to get it all twisted in her head, to lose the look of wonder she once carried and to see the world as a hard and stubborn thing determined to exterminate her. to see every person she meets as a competitor or an obstacle or a stepping stone. to file her nails to a point and sharpen her teeth and buckle down to wait for the onslaught.

→ he tells her stories of the Gravemakers, the men that made him a success when he was young, the ladder that raised him up to the fortune he would never summit. the men who should have done the same to her father, if they hadn’t broken him. her life becomes a story, the Gravemakers white knights to whom one can only aspire.

girls like her are not made to be princesses. as a teenager, she lets herself be used and abused for a shot at feeling like a girl. for a shot at someone else validating her. if she cannot be rich, if she cannot be successful, at least she can maybe be loved. but she cannot abide it for long; it is not in her nature. she is pure spirit, remember? she cannot be broken.

she shoves boys off of her and sneers and paints her face in smeared makeup and drapes herself in ripped clothes and turns herself into a beast, unwantable, unloveable, but dedicated, and useful.

→ they are never cruel. that is key. she is not a child who wants for love, just one who doesn’t understand the lengths to which love can extend. lonely, in her way, until she learns to turn dreams into companions. she fights her way through life and her grandfather is proud, celebrating every success. she believes him when he tells her that she will go far, that she is the legacy that can make up for the world her father has lost them.

she builds a crystalline image in her mind of what will be, of all the things she will gain if only she is strong enough, and smart enough, and tough enough. the Silva men never did have enough spirit to see them through, and she is destined to be what neither of them could ever truly be.

→ when she is seventeen, her grandfather dies. her father lets the body rot in the bedroom upstairs of the house they only still have because the mortgage had been paid long before she was born. her dream, if you could call it a dream, dies with him, hung up like his dressing gown on the bed post, locked away in that room, ignored, until a neighbor calls the cops to investigate the stench of death. by that point, her father has drunken himself into a stupor too profound to explain his actions.

she applies to college just to get away, so she can leave this house and never come back, so she can make something of herself, or not make something of herself, but at least be free of the expectation. the legacy.

but she cannot shake the Gravemakers.

→ Lovell is the first step towards being something. she doesn’t know if she believes her grandfather, anymore, but she has moved beyond caring. this world is about survival, and as much as she wants to, she cannot do it alone.

INITIATION DAYS.

→ she didn’t need to notice the Gravemakers; she grew up on tales of the society likebedtime stories, her father and grandfather holding the society close to their hearts with nostalgic sickness. she hunted the Gravemakers down, applied to Lovell solely for them, ready to do whatever it took to join the ranks of the people who had made her family – and in turn, her – what it was.

→ her name should have secured her place here – it was, perhaps, the only place her name still held any clout at all, where her family was not a fallen relic. she made herself known, expected to introduce herself to their president as Silva and watch his face light up in recognition, watch him offer her a place in the Gravemakers on the spot. it does not. he does not. Nathan St. Leger looks at her from under one arched eyebrow and says sure, right. is that your first name?

→ Jonathan Marko taps her, eventually, alongside another freshman, Cecilia Beaux, but it takes some work for her to get there. she is resentful, at first, at the fresh-faced and smiling girl who joins her during that first Lost Weekend – a girl who looks as if she’s never worked for anything, looks like she got here as effortlessly as she blow-dried her hair. that will change, in time. not as much as she thinks.

→ if she had not been tapped, she would have left Lovell. probably would have left higher academia for good, all things considered. she was never attached to the idea of going to college so much as she was attached to the idea of being a part of the group she had grown up dreaming of. she might have gone to a vocational school, gotten herself an honest job working with her own two hands. or conned her way through life gambling with the little money she had. but she was. so she stays.

→ the Gravemakers sap the loyalty out of her, until she is nothing except where she is one of them. from that very first day, she is a Gravemaker, through and through, ready to fight their battles for them. and all she asks in return is a place to belong.

HEADCANONS.

→ Silva’s style is all ripped denim shorts, shredded tights, black leather boots, and layered shirts. she was much more feminine, when she first transitioned, but she got tired of it pretty damn quick, especially as her family’s fortune declined and she started shopping at thrift stores. she loves crop tops, lesbian flannel, off-the-shoulder sweaters with massive holes in them, her patched army surplus jacket littered in enamel pins. all of it together is something like a uniform, along with her chipped nail polish and never-quite-right smeared lipstick, her messy tangled mass of bleach-damaged blonde hair. she looks like exactly how much of a mess she really is, always rough and ready, always a little like she got dressed in the dark.

→ she does usually get dressed in the dark, as a matter of fact, curtains drawn so tight across the windows of her room that not even a little bit of morning light can penetrate them. she hates mornings, drags herself out of bed reluctantly and sits at the tiny kitchen table across from Beaux, wrapped in her duvet and barely cognizant until she’s finished at least three cups of too-strong coffee, then hops in a boiling shower just to shock herself awake in time to make it to her first early-afternoon class. running jokes about vampirism aside, she genuinely picks her class schedule based upon not having to be outside of her apartment before eleven in the morning because she just doesn’t function that early, especially not when she stays out past 2 or 3 in the morning most nights.

→ she was never going to have a 4.0 GPA, never going to graduate cum laude, simply because she doesn’t care enough to, but it doesn’t mean she isn’t smart of invested in her studies. she loves her history classes, focusing on military history – a fascination she’s had since she was a kid playing with G I Joe’s, loves the perverted patriotism that leads men to slaughter each other for the so-called Greater Good. she’s never a day in her life supported the military itself, but stories and strategies fascinate her. her senior thesis, on which she’s steadily working in sporadic bursts, is called Rituals of War: Brainwashing, Bonding, and Toxic Masculinity in History’s Great Armies

→ she has been in love with Cecelia Beaux for exactly as long as she has anything but hated Cecelia Beaux. there was never an in between; the second the girl caught her attention, she caught her complete and total devotion as well. at least, once she stopped behaving like a vapid, air-headed party girl and showed her teeth a little. but she decided, early on, and with firm decision, that she would protect Cecelia Beaux to the ends of the earth, and her feelings only grew from there.

→ love has never stood in the way, though, especially because Beaux is unreadable at times. Silva has no idea if Beaux even likes women, let alone if she would ever consider her. and she hasn’t let her feelings get in the way of an active and healthy – healthy? – sex life during her four years at Lovell. never, really, with anyone she cared about, but with boys she treated like toys and girls whose buttons she liked to push. her kisses are all teeth, her thin arms pushing you up against a wall, and she is a little but a wicked smile as she makes you squirm.

→ tapping new recruits is her favorite part of any year, perusing the first years for the raw dedication she expects of other Gravemakers. Beaux picks the ones filled with romantic longing, and she picks the warriors, the ones who won’t be afraid to get their hands dirty, the ones who already have blood beneath their nails. and she takes great joy in watching them succeed.

INTERVIEW.

how far would you go to protect your friends or those you loved?

→ “You’re joking, right? I mean, you know who I am, right? What did that Pax Aurea bitch call me, less lieutenant and more pathetic guard dog? I don’t love a lotta people, buddy, but I’d fucking kill a man for looking at Beaux wrong, and that’s not even close to a secret. Probably Oswald, too. My other friends? Yeah, I’d probably do the same. I mean, I get in fights over dumb shit all the time, it’s no skin off my back to finish a fight I’m not a part of if it means making things a little easier for one of my friends.

which mythological god do you identify with?

→ “Eris. Greek goddess of discord and strife? Most of the Greeks are fucking overrated, but that one, she knows a thing or two. Wrath relentless, chaos alive, who no man loves. What’s the quote… god, Beaux would kill me if I fucked it up… something like: she hurled down bitterness equally between both sides as she walked through the onslaught making men’s pain heavier. Yeah, she sounds like a good time to have at a party, right? She had a fuckin’ religion with a devotee named Malaclypse, like…. you don’t get much better than that, for a Greek fuckin’ god.”

how honest are you about your thoughts or feelings?

→ “Look, I don’t believe in dishonesty. If people have a problem with my thoughts and feelings, they have a problem with me and I don’t want to go around lying to ingratiate myself to people who would ordinarily hate me. There are enough people out there that appreciate some goddamn honesty that I’m sure I’ll find people wherever I go. Far as I see it, I’m the kind of person people stay away from unless they can handle a whole storm of shit, so I might as well bring along the promised shit storm.”

do you have any bias’ or prejudices?

→ “Who the hell doesn’t? If someone tells you they don’t have any biases, they’re fucking lying, and you can take that to the bank. It’s human nature; I don’t care how hard you try to be equitable or whatever, you’re gonna have some fuckin’ prejudices. Me? I hate men, mostly, and I hate listening to them talk. You give me two opposing stories, I’m always gonna believe the chick. Why? Because men, historically, are liars and also because I hate the smug way they float through life like they own it.”

BONUS SECTION: EXTRAS.

→ inspo tag → character aesthetic → playlist

[chelseacatharsis]

To the Brokenhearted

Dumbledore once said that youth can not know how age thinks and feels, but old men are guilty if they forget what it is to be young. Granted, I’m only 25 years young, but I can still recall my youth from 10 years past. 

I remember my first feeling of abandonment. I was in 7th grade. Petite and underdeveloped. Acne. Braces. Glasses. Oily complexion. Horribly dressed. And if my physical appearance wasn’t displeasing enough, my extroverted tendencies made my mouth run like a motorboat speeding down a river (I’ve definitely ran over a good number of manatees in my life time). 

This was my first year separated from my elementary school friends. My microcosm shattered. 

They were popular--I wasn’t. They made dozens of new friends--I made one. They wanted to drink--I wanted to abstain. 

I officially woke up to this rude awakening when one of my loyal companions decided to rummage through my dresser and dispose all of the clothes she believed were uncool. Of course this was after she munched on my box of frootloops and said she didn’t want to continue our relationship if I didn’t change my wardrobe. 

Abandoned. Aloof. Alone. 

I was discarded like an old ball point pen. My self value was crushed, mocked, and spit upon. I believed the lie I was unworthy and unlovable. 

I then experienced my first feeling of heartbreak. It was my best friend of two years. He was one of those friends where I could be my authentic self. We talked about nothing, rarely acted serious, but still conversed about meaningful topics. He was my first feeling of love; the feeling of wanting to sacrifice everything I had to bring  a smile to his face. I sacrificed my time, my finances, my emotional well-being, and unintentionally my heart. 

But this love story ended in tragedy. I was smitten with someone who didn’t return my favor nor my faith in Christ. Instead of walking towards the Lord, he walked toward’s Satan’s traps of homosexuality, alcohol, and cigarettes. More than anything, I wanted to show him his value and how worthy he was of love. I wanted to save him. 

But God said to walk away. 

So I did. I sat there on my bedroom floor, upright with my back pressed upon the wall, weeping at the thought of never seeing him again. My stomach was churning and inside of me was a gaping hole that was slowly growing; a hole I believed only he could fill (that of course was another lie). 

I could continue to share my pain. I could tell you about my first thoughts of suicide; my first feelings of hopelessness; my first feelings of being a burden; my first feelings of never being good enough. I could spend days recalling painful moments, but I’ve learned that while these moments have strengthened me in my faith, they have also deceived me into believing lies. 

Pain is a double edge sword. God uses our pain to grow us, challenge us, and mold us into the creations He’s called us to be. Hundreds of ministries exist because someone endured a painful experience. But when we lose sight of the cross, Satan uses our pain to trap us in deceit. It is during our most painful moments, that the enemy whispers false accusations against our character. 

He tells us we are unlovable. He tells us we are unworthy. He tells us we are ugly. He tells us there is no hope outside of our current situation. He lies to us so we forfeit the fight and remain in a state of hopelessness. 

Hopelessness. 

Do we truly understand the dangers of hopelessness? It means we believe that we are forever destined to remain in our worst circumstances; that our pain is never ending and that we will never experience relief. 

Without Christ, this lie would be true. With Christ, pain is seasonal and our permanent relief is when we are reunited with Him in heaven. 

Everyone’s pain is experienced through different outlets. Regardless if my outlets seem easier or harder compared to others, I still have experienced it, and (to a degree) I understand. 

I understand how it feels to be abandoned by people I trust. I understand how it feels to play depressing music as I consistently cry myself to sleep. I understand how it feels to fake a smile by day and wallow in depression by night. I understand how it feels to be rejected when I want nothing more than to be accepted. I understand how it feels to be bitter towards people God has called me to love. I understand how it feels to keep a wall separating me from others to protect myself from heartache. I understand how it feels to bury my pain and emotions under sarcasm and cynicism. I understand how it feels when I’m in a state of hopelessness; a state where I believe my worst circumstances will never change. 

From someone who has experienced countless cycles of pain for 25 years, I want to reassure you that pain is not permanent. Pain is inevitable in this broken world, but it is also seasonal. Some seasons are short, while other seasons tend to drag on. But regardless of the length of the season, they all eventually end. 

Dearly beloved, I hope you know this season of pain and suffering will change. I pray you will fight against the the enemy’s lies and keep your hope in Christ. 

This pain is temporary, but Christ is eternal.