#a terrible bird. just ripping off chunks and swallowing.

[captaiinobvious]

does anyone else feel like chewing is 2 much trouble? not only does it slightly hurt my jaw joints and tire me out but it takes sooooo long i wish i could chew each bite like 2 times an be done. but then nothing would ever b crunchy and that would b a truly evil world. no chips? more like world of pain and suffering forever and ever.

birds have it right tho u should just tear off chunks and swallow them whole. for the record yes i do chew way less than i should already im just in such a goddamn hurry 2 eat, either because the food is just 2 good and i want more in my mouth or cuz theres something else id really rather b doing and eating takes soooooo loooooooong i love oatmeal and pudding and noodles and smoothies and brothy soups. broth is the closest ill ever come 2 just straight up drinking a whole chicken. mmmmmmm

[violetsandshrikes]

could the leds hurt the cockatoos? sorry this is so unnecessary bc i'm sure they are not like swallowing chunks of sign or whatever i just get soo anxious about animal videos that i want to find funny so i always have the urge to find some sort of confirmation that it is actually all good and fun

Cockatoos are kind of a complex human-animal conflict issue. They live very urbanely throughout Australia, and destroy many things - this has a lot to do with deforestation and loss of habitat full of things they’d usually rip up, like trees.

Wild cockatoos (and domestic tbh, for anyone who’s owned/known one) can be pretty destructive. I’m not particularly surprised they’re ripping up the signs - they can get between pieces with their beak, cling to it, and rip, which is pretty much all they need to pull pieces off things. The only way you can really keep them off things is bird-netting, taut wires, bird spikes or spraying them with water, and even that has varying results (I think it was a few years ago that the viral video of the cockatoo tossing bird spikes off a building went around?)

These guys have intelligence on par with chimpanzees, and for the most part, cockatoos seem to be pretty good at differentiating between edible and inedible things they rip up. There’s still risk they could ingest something harmful, or that they could give themselves beak damage, but they do basically live alongside humans now in urban environments, and hand themselves pretty well. They’re also protected native species, so if one did hurt itself, the chances are very high it would quickly be caught or brought in to receive vet care.

The guys in the video also appear to be juveniles, so they are very likely just playing + investigating, pulling pieces off and dropping them. I can’t 100% say there isn’t risk of harm to them, but it’s also not terribly unusual behaviour for them or immediately alarming.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don���t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

[the-cosmic-blogger]

After much inner debate, I decided to post the drabble I linked in Vin's masterpost separately. One warning, however; there's mild gore in here.

I can't do a read more so...

(/////////////////)

It was that time again. Vin let out a small, quiet hiss as he lay there on his bed in his treehome, gripping his belly carefully. Breathing deeply, and shaking too, he tried to ignore the thudding sounds coming from Alaina’s soul. 

Her beautiful, delicious soul…

Vin snapped out of it, realizing he’d been drooling too, slobber dripping from his mouth. He wiped the drivel away, anxiety rising as he sat up. He.. he had to try and find a soul. But.. Alaina… she wouldn’t like that. Swallowing thickly, he chanced a glance over at her sleeping form, biting back another hiss. 

His head was killing him, flooded with her soul beats and absolute hunger. Soon, he rushed downstairs to the kitchen, and started preparing a breakfast of pancakes and eggs for her, trembling as he did so. The thuds may have faded slightly, but..

He had to find someone…

Even though he hated it now. 

So after he prepared breakfast, he left the three-stack and eggs covered on the counter, heading outside. Unaware that a certain girl was waking up…

=========

The demon ghost searched all through the forest for a wayward soul, hunting. He sniffed and narrowed his golden eyes, whose white pupils slitted for a bit. He should have expected nothing. Subcon had been popular these years, and so were the warnings. He shook again, his claws reaching out and gripping a tree, digging into it. Vin had ignored his hunger for so long…

Wait.. he started hearing beats.. of not just a soul, but two. Hope rekindled, he looked ahead, and spotted a Mafia Goon and an Owl. Drooling once again, his senses blocked out all else except for them. He didn’t hear the distant footsteps approaching. Didn’t much hear their conversation. All he could hear were their souls. And he wanted them…

“Mafia no listen to bird. Mafia and bird are lost!” 

“Hey, wait a second! maybe we can ask…”

“Ask? Mafia no use for ask! bird got us lost in forest!”

Suddenly, they were scooped up, and once they realized by whom, they started to freak out. It was a shame too. On much better occasions, Vin would have helped them. 

But now.. he was so terribly hungry..

He hissed and his fangs dove toward their necks, biting deeply into them, before he ripped off their heads, blood spraying everywhere and on him. The screams stopped. His eyes were wild as he brought the heads into his mouth with his tongue, and began munching. Once he was done, he slipped his tongue into the Mafia Goon’s neck, and slurped out his heart and soul. And soon he did the same to the Owl, back hunched over. 

Vin swallowed, dropping them, but his ferality lingered deeply. He hissed again, bent down to them, and started eating their bodies, ripping off chunks and crunching the bones. Feeling the blood drip down his chin and wiping it off with his tongue. Very soon, there was nothing left of them. And he blinked, his pupils rounding out as he took breaths. 

He soon looked down and saw red liquid coating parts of him. Eyes widening, he started shaking a little. H..had he done it again? eat them whole? seemed like it. He couldn’t spot their bodies or any remnants of them anywhere. 

He soon heard a small gasp, and he whipped around, brow furrowed upwards. He saw Alaina, comb out and looking paler than usual. His eyes widened more. “K..kiddo..”

She backed away from him.

“I’m.. I’m sorry…”

Alaina was still absolutely horrified, but those three words caused her to falter. Vin started to cry, kneeling and hugging himself as his brow furrowed upwards. He looked awful, blood around his mouth and on his form, but this display made her bite the inside of her cheeks.

It was possible that he could be acting… he had said he was a demon, after all. But at the same time, she currently knew that Vin was a really sweet guy too. Something must have happened to cause this. And given that she saw him voraciously eat those poor people, she could take a good guess as to what it was. 

“..I.. didn’t want this… I.. don’t want this..” he sniffled, crying still. “I hate hurting people… please...”

He.. did so much more than hurt them.. Alaina nonetheless got closer, putting her comb away, and placed a hand on his face. He opened those golden teary eyes and sadly gazed down at her, swallowing thickly. The teenager soon replied, “I understand, Vin..”

Vin’s eyes widened, but he made no effort to pull away. “B..but.. kiddo, I.. I.. I killed those poor people.. I.. did what you didn’t like..”

“I know,” Alaina kept her hand on his freckled cheek, beginning to pat it. He purred, leaning into her hand remorsefully. She could feel his tears. “You.. we’re gonna figure this out, Vin.. I promise.. we’re gonna figure out how to get rid of your hunger… okay?”

There was silence for a moment. The resolve in her words, determination in her tone, and stubbornness in her expression.. they all made him smile. That was what he wanted.

“Okay, kiddo… thank you..”

(///////////////////)

Alaina belongs to @mun-auroralore! hope you enjoyed!

[keeroo92]

Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch 23 (V x Reader)

Chapter 23 - Prelude

________________________________________________

June 15th, 6:12 am

The last few hours since V and Nero’s departure had felt like a millennia. Every second passing was another second you pictured another vision of V and Nero dying at the hands of some formless monster. Each heartbeat was another beat during which their hearts may have already stopped. Each breath you took was another gasp of air that you prayed they inhaled too, wherever they were and whatever they faced. You had long since run out of tears, only your shaking body and twisted expression showing the turmoil in your mind.

You sit with Nico in silence, her arm still draped over your shoulders as she chews on her bottom lip nervously. You barely notice her presence as you imagine Nero falling off a twelve story building, the same crunch you heard when his spine broke echoing brutally as he hits the ground and breaks every bone in his body.

Nico’s gentle hand stroking your hair only triggers an image of V getting his hair, his wonderful hair, ripped out harshly by a ghostly hand, bits of his scalp still clinging to the roots in bloody chunks of flesh. The formless hand descends again, claws sprouting from its fingers and slicing across V’s bleeding scalp deep enough to reveal the grey mass hidden within and you swallow harshly to keep yourself from vomiting, your body curling inwards in preparation despite your best efforts.

“Ah, fuck this! Hold on, honey, I’ll get us there as quick as I can!” Nico exclaims suddenly, her body rising away from you to dash to the driver’s seat. You blink slowly as she starts the engine, your awareness of reality foggy. She floors the accelerator and your body is shoved against the leather of the couch as the force hits you.

 Is it time to go now…? We’re going to find them?

You brace your feet on the rug and force yourself to stand, keeping your knees bent in case Nico has to take a turn. This proves to be wise as she does exactly that, throwing your body sideways as you barely manage to keep yourself upright.

“Get your ass up here, Y/N! It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!” Nico shouts from her seat with a crazed laugh.

An image of V’s face glazed over in death spurs you to move, a few desperate steps bringing you within arms reach of the passenger seat just in time to grab onto the headrest as Nico turns again, two wheels leaving the ground entirely as she howls around a corner. The tires hit the ground again in a loud screech and you pull yourself into the seat beside her, hurriedly clicking your seatbelt into place. She winks at you as the van slams into a parked vehicle and just keeps barreling forward as if nothing happened.

Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering where on Earth Nico had learned to drive.

You look out the windshield, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nero or V somewhere in view to no avail. All that greets your hungry gaze is more of the same abandoned cars and rubble you’ve seen enough to last a lifetime now. You’re about to lean back when a low rumble sounds from above, and as you watch the Qlipoth root that was the target of the attack turns grey and shatters, massive hunks of the stony structure falling across the area in a wide spread. Nico cheers and you can’t help but join her even as your stomach lurches, wondering what state the two men are in.

With a final screech of rubber, your prayers are answered as V and Nero come into view; panting, dusty, covered in blood but alive and standing! Griffon flies overhead and Shadow prowls around the lean poet’s feet as the van comes to a shuddering halt not ten feet from where the two men stand watching. Your fingers leap to the catch of your seatbelt in such a rapid movement they slide right off again from the sweat covering your palms. You growl in frustration, wiping your palms on your pants with gritted teeth.

“I know, I know, I’m late! Shut it!” Nico jokes out the window at the two men. “The roads were all clogged!”

You don’t hear whatever she says next as you mercifully manage to unbuckle yourself and almost fall out of the seat in your rush to reach V. A portion of your mind idly watches V flick a piece of whatever demon he and Nero had defeated into Nico’s grasp as you sprint at him, only able to breathe again once you finally wrap your arms around his slim frame. He lets out a low grunt at the impact, but his free arm finds its way around you quickly enough. You inhale his scent joyfully as Nero scolds Nico somewhere in the distance.

“Did you just sniff that? Do you have any idea where that’s been?”

“Up your butt?”

“Tch. Focus on the mission!”

All sound seems to fade as you feel V’s chest rumbling beneath in laughter, the boisterous sound telling you everything you desperately needed to know about how he was after the battle. Relief floods you, a powerful flood of energy seeping away through your toes into the ground as the tension leaves your body at last.

 I have to get strong enough, so he never has to leave me behind again.

“One rotten sheep spoils the whole flock,” V quips with an adorable smirk, and you slowly begin to giggle as his meaning becomes clear and the stress vacates your senses. His emerald eyes sparkle in amusement as your laughter erupts from you, his own mixing in once more to your delight.

It feels stunningly perfect to laugh, to take a moment to enjoy V’s unique sense of humor in the chaos surrounding you. You tighten your arms around him once more before you let him go, ready to join Nero and Nico in the van. You take V’s hand and enter the van to formulate the next attack, feeling infinitely better about your prospects now that the two men had managed to take down a root without sustaining any injuries. Griffon follows you, settling in on top of the old-fashioned jukebox across from the couch.

Inside, Nico is already hard at work, cursing as she tries to figure out a way to make use of the demonic horn V had tossed her way. You sit down in your usual spot on the as V approaches Nero up front where the young warrior sits with his feet on the dash.

Now that the group is safely reunited, you vaguely remember your gift for Nico and you bring the phone to her with a smile. She glances up at you in confusion before her gaze drops to your hands and grins widely.

“Awesome! Is that for me? Lemme take a look at it, should be able to get it working if I can just…” she trails off as you place the landline in her hands, her mind already hard at work to figure out how to get the phone hooked up to the van. You turn back to the two men in the front, addressing them both equally as you sit back down on the couch.

“Just so you know, I’m not staying behind again,” you pipe up, crossing your arms stubbornly.

Staying behind with Nico had been a special kind of torture, forcing all the familiar feelings of uselessness, powerlessness, self-doubt and panic to wrap you in their embrace like an old friend. Even though it made logical sense for you to remain with Nico, you know it would tear you apart until you had nothing left, leaving you in a near-constant state of high caliber panic and anxiety.

 I don’t want to watch them dying in my head anymore. I can’t.

Instantly as you think of them, all the different visions of V and Nero’s deaths flood your mind again and you stop breathing, heart locked in a terrible vice and stomach roiling harshly as you struggle to stay in the moment, to focus on the now. You start counting in your head, the linear progression of numbers a soothing balm of logical thinking to ease your emotional state.

“In that case, I think we should split into two groups,” V informs the group after your pronouncement.

“And cover more ground. Good idea,” Nero replies, spinning back around to head Nico’s way but she’s already stepping out from behind the counter with a new arm held out proudly. It’s a different design, red and black and much bulkier than the Bladestorm Nero has been using so much.

“Behold, my genius! Ah, ah, cash first,” Nico insists as Nero reaches out to take the new device from her, Griffon watching in amusement behind him. You see V sit on one of the small seats by the table out of the corner of your eye, smirking as he watches the pair argue.

“All the materials I collected for your little pet projects don’t count for anything?” the young warrior complains with a gesture at her work station, but she barely glances at it before she responds.

“My brilliant, badass work is worth every dime, and you know it,” she tells him as she pulls out a cigarette and crosses by Nero, forcing him to step back to make enough room for her to pass.

“Yeah, well your quality control sucks ass, and you know that,” Nero snaps back with a gesture of his hand. V glances at you with a twinkle of mirth in his emerald gaze, the two of you enjoying the show in silence.

“Or maybe don’t let the demons smack you around so much?” Nico suggests with a sharp flick of her arm. Nero clenches his jaw and flushes just a tiny bit as he turns away from her, stepping over to stand near the work bench.

“Whatever,” he mutters as he leans against the wall near you.

Nico holds up the device once more, smiling proudly as she watches the way it reflects the light.

“I am truly gifted. It’s a work of art,” she comments reverently, holding the arm up near where Griffon perches on the jukebox. The mouthy bird chuckles for a moment in amusement before his gravely voice rings out from his triple-forked beak.

“So you’re an artist now, huh?” he asks Nico mockingly.

She turns to face him so quickly he visibly jumps back in alarm, wings opening slightly to keep his balance as he lets out a startled squawk. You can picture the glare Nico sends the bird as she faces away from you, her voice a threatening tone.

“Yes I am. Got any questions, little chicken?”

Nico turns to face V, a small smirk gracing his lips as she ignores Griffon to address him.

“My grandmother was called the .45 caliber virtuoso. Legendary gunsmith,” she tells the lean poet, mechanical arm in one hand and unlit cigarette in the other. “I hope to be like her someday. An artist, and a lethal artisan.”

Her gaze shifts back to the arm in her grasp with a proud smile as she speaks. “Everything I create is a work of art, whether it’s a gun…”

She pauses and steps closer to Griffon again. “Or a steel pot, to cook birds in!”

Nico spins around and plops down on the couch next to you, one hand reaching for a lighter as she concludes, “Any more questions? Huh, lil’ chickee?”

Griffon ruffles his feathers, trying his best to not show any fear, but you can tell the idea of being cooked disturbs him thoroughly. V chuckles lightly as he stands, waving one arm through the air as Nico exhales a large cloud of smoke.

“We’ll take our leave now,” he says with a glance at you. You quickly stand and make sure you have everything you’ll need as Nero steps forward, slinging his massive blade across his back from where it rests beside the jukebox. V catches his eye for a moment as he opens the door to leave.

“And if we don’t see you along the way, we’ll see you at the bottom of the Qlipoth,” he murmurs as he steps out of the van. You give Nico a quick hug, and Nero a solid fist bump before you follow V outside, overjoyed to be accompanying him.

The lean poet seems stronger, more energetic than usual. His cane held loosely in his left hand, looking more like a stage prop that a necessary medical device as he strides away from the van confidently, his body almost swaggering as you follow behind him. Griffon flaps overhead, keeping his strange eyes peeled for any sign of trouble as you progress.

The sound of your new sword striking the metal crutches sets an easy rhythm for your steps, your faithful baseball bat slung over your shoulders on top of your backpack. It’s now been almost ten days since your hip injury, the pain fading a little bit more each day. You haven’t had to take any ibuprofen for a few days, your high pain tolerance serving you well.

 By this point, the crutches are more of a formality. I don’t really need them to walk, but also shouldn’t walk unaided as much as I’m sure we’ll need to. I can drop them to fight easily enough.

Griffon’s voice shakes you from your thoughts as you follow V into a small tunnel, some kind of passage below the street that crosses over the top of the structure. Griffon follows soon after, massive wings disturbing the dirt beneath your feet with each flap.

“So, V you think this kid can defeat Urizen?”

 Does he mean Nero?

You can hear the smirk on the poet’s lips as he replies softly, “One can only hope.”

Suddenly the rear of the tunnel collapses, chunks of rock crashing down to rest a few yards away from where you stand. You cough as the dust rises, choking you slightly.

“But for now, we have a more pressing engagement,” V concludes. He checks to make sure you’re alright and strides forward again, his focus clear. You follow a few steps behind, taking a sip of water from one of the bottles to help clear your throat of dust particles. You’ve barely reached the next turn in the road when you spot some Empusa. V quickly flicks his wrist and Shadow materializes with a low roar.

You drop your crutches, standing strong on your own two feet as you draw the sword, wrapping your right hand up close to the guard loosely as Griffon mocks Shadow overhead.

“Oooooh, genius says be careful! No shit, Shirley. Ain’t that right, V? I mean, you ARE fragile at the moment, wouldn’t take much to wipe you out in a sticky situation!”

V smirks, a sparkle of amusement lighting his eyes as he pulls out his book, letting it fall open to any page and reading the first line he sees aloud.

“He who desires but act not, breeds pestilence. So it is written,” he intones, snapping he book closed again and stowing it back within his vest as Griffon replies with a sigh.

“Okay Shakespeare. Just remember this: you and I like to exist. So, get rid of those demons quick, cause killing ‘em ain’t my shtick! I got your back, cause dying is whack!”

Shadow lets out another roar as you step forward, twirling your blade in front of you to loosen your wrist. The nearest Empusa moves toward you and you shoot V a glare to warn him not to interfere. He smirks and redirects his attention to the other two Empusa, Griffon and Shadow already on the offensive.

Your foe charges at you suddenly and you step to the side quickly, lowering your blade across its back as it crosses by you. The sharp edge sinks deep into the creature, leaving a satisfying slice on its back as it turns to face you again. You wait until it charges again before snapping your sword forward, making sure to brace the pommel on your inner wrist as Nero had shown you as you thrust the tip of the blade deep into the Empusa’s hideous face. You grin maniacally as it pokes all the way through its head.

As the tell-tale ash rises from its corpse, you turn to see V watching you with a pleased twist marking his mirth. When you step closer he actually starts laughing.

“What’s so funny, my poet?” you ask him curiously. He chuckles once more before resting an arm over your shoulders with an adorable smirk.

“Do you remember when you saw your first Empusa? At the store when we needed supplies?” he inquires.

How could I forget? I killed the damn thing with a frying pan.

You nod slowly and V smiles as Shadow pads up to you for some scratches. You happily oblige her as he explains his mirth.

“I was remembering how you looked when I found you, that pan still in both hands. You had the exact same look on your face just now as you did that day, the same lovely bloodthirsty smile. The comparison of circumstances amused me, my little warrior fox,” he informs you with a wide smile. You wipe your blade on your sleeve carefully and sheathe it before leaning over and giving V a playful swat on the behind. He raises an eyebrow at you and reaches out to pull you against him for a kiss that stops time.

 I’ll never get tired of kissing him…

You moan lightly as Shadow huffs and pads away. You hear Griffon making retching noises somewhere nearby but ignore it to focus on the wonderful sensation of V’s full lips caressing yours, his tongue dipping in and out of your mouth skillfully as he teases you to the point of gasping. You squeak suddenly when V’s steady hand strikes your ass in a firm spank, his fingers grasping your toned flesh and caressing it tenderly to soothe the sting away. He growls into your mouth as he pulls back and you surge with confidence at the flush on his cheeks and the glazed look of his emerald eyes.

“Between two moments bliss is ripe,” he recites in a purr that leaves your knees weak. Much to your disappointment, he releases you from his embrace with a sigh.

“We must keep moving,” he reminds you sadly and you nod in agreement. You hastily situate yourself on your accursed crutches and follow V as he strides forward, Griffon flapping above and Shadow prowling nearby.

A short time later, you enter a courtyard as you exit a building, shipping containers forming a blockade ahead. You look back to V questioningly to see him staring at a series of dark shapes above. They resemble bats, but they’re far larger than any you’ve ever heard of. You glace at V again as Shadow roars a challenge to them.

“Hellbats. They can spit fire, so keep your eyes up,” he instructs you with a grimace.

You sigh heavily and drop your crutches with a clatter, drawing your sword with a satisfying sound of metal sliding against its sheath. You hold it at waist height and wait, knowing one of these foes will eventually come to you. Even as you stay motionless, V bursts into action. Griffon swoops forward, raking one of the bats with his harsh talons. Shadow shifts into her spinning blade form, rising off the ground to slash deep into another bat nearby.

You see one coming your way and raise your blade a bit higher, stepping forward to slice clean through the creature as it starts to gather flames in its mouth. Its ash blows away in the slight breeze as you glance at V again.

He’s in the middle of a flying leap, bringing his cane down to bear against a Hellbat with a sharp thrust of his lean arms.

 He’s fine, I don’t need to worry about him.

The last bat not already fighting one of you swoops close to you, a stream of fire falling from its gaping maw as it passes. You leap aside with a gasp, your hip twinging slightly as you land. Even so, you manage to reach out with your jian and make a clumsy cut into the demon’s wing. It circles haphazardly for a moment before it’s forced to the ground and you quickly finish it off with a single swing of your blade.

You look around for the next combatant only to find there are none left. You shoot an exhilarated smile at V as your chest heaves in exertion. You clean your blade and sheathe it again carefully, following V as he strides to the corner of the courtyard toward a stairwell leading down. A partially destroyed brick wall stands ahead, and V carefully climbs over it with a gesture for you to wait there. A moment later, you hear Griffon’s raucous cries as he attacks something and you blink in amusement as a portion of the nearby root crumbles away, giving V a way forward around the corner out of your sight. He returns a moment later with a smile as he jumps off the ledge with a laugh. You gasp and look over the edge to see Griffon grasping V’s arm and slowly lowering him the last few feet.

 Now you’re just showing off…

You roll your eyes but take hold when Griffon returns for you, the ladder a bit much with how full your hands are. Once on the ground, you have to step carefully around the twisting train tracks lining the area. More shipping containers lie strewn about, some stacked carefully but others having clearly moved when the Qlipoth struck. You pause your observations as red webbing appears and a swarm of Empusa come crawling out of various nooks and crannies, a few popping in through gray portals.

V smirks at you and winks before raising his left hand high and snapping, the obsidian hue of his hair swirling away to reveal the snowy tone underneath. A fireball descends from on high, the herald of Nightmare’s arrival striking perfectly between several of the Empusa. V darts forward and deals the final blow to several in rapid succession as Nightmare bubbles into existence.

You stay far back and watch as V stalks around the edges of the tracks, his emerald eyes always seeking the next death blow as Nightmare shoots laser after laser into the demons, Griffon cackling as he spits lightning and Shadow roaring as she swipes her claws angrily.

 Sometimes I forget how powerful he actually is… this is like an orchestra.

As if V heard your thoughts, he turns to you with a grin and extends his cane out in an approximation of a conductor, loudly humming a few bars of Flight of the Valkyries. As his hand punches the air in emphasis, you can’t help but giggle.

 He seems so happy today.

He winks at you once again before leaping back into the chaotic battle to finish off the last few Empusa with a dark chuckle, white hair flowing as he moves gracefully about. As Nightmare bubbles away with the last demon, his hair regains its dark tone and he steps back over to join you.

“You are so ridiculous sometimes, you know that?” you inform him with an amused smirk. He shrugs and leans in for a quick peck, a soft hum of contentment thrumming in his throat.

“I thought I’d give you a taste of the Opera you wanted, little fox,” he murmurs as he steps back, his words warming you in his affection.

“Ah, well… it was quite the spectacle!” you tease him as the two of you set off once more, heading toward a distorted bridge covered in small Qlipoth roots. V has to help you step over a few of the larger ones. Roughly halfway across, a bulging red mass extends from one of the tendrils, pulsating angrily in a mimicry of a heartbeat. The roots here are too large for you to traverse, and V sighs as he ponders his options.

“This bridge seems unstable… If I were to clear that root, it may collapse,” he informs you seriously.

“So… what do we do?” you ask in response.

He gazes off into the distance, his eyes sweeping across the myriad of sunken buildings as he thinks. Suddenly he grins, chuckling as he points.

“Look, I can see Nero,” he shows you and sure enough, the white-haired warrior is off in the distance, finding his own way across the area. As you watch, something shoots from his new arm and he latches on to a strange orb floating between two buildings, tugging himself forward to land on the next rooftop from the momentum. You hear a faint whoop as he trots forward to meet a few demons in battle, his sword gleaming with flames.

You shake your head and turn back to your own situation, gears turning in your mind to find a way across, but you can’t think of anything useful. V follows your gaze and clenches his jaw irritably as he steps closer to the red pustules. You follow him easily enough on the smooth surface; the area is still lacking the rubble you’ve grown so accustomed to.

“I don’t see any other options, I’ll have to risk it,” V murmurs and you nod, bracing yourself in case the bridge fails. He flicks his wrist out and Shadow appears, her claws already slashing forward to attack. It only takes a few strikes for the red orbs to burst, showering V in blood. The root turns gray and the bridge beneath your feet rumbles as it begins to fall away. V grunts, bracing his cane against the ground to keep himself from hitting the ground. His fearful eyes meet yours as he rushes forward, only a step ahead of you as you scramble behind him. He reaches out both arms, one to pull you to him and the other extended out as he leaps into free space, the bridge collapsing into the water below with a great crash.

Your heart stops as his arm barely manages to reach you, tugging you against him harshly as you both begin to fall together. A swarm of black shards escapes V’s outstretched arm and Griffon materializes above you. His feet latch onto V’s still raised arm and you can feel the jerk as the momentum shifts. Griffon struggles, flapping as hard as he can but unable to rise.

 Oh shit, we are so dead!

“V, need a little help here!” the bird shouts in alarm.

“My hands are quite occupied, my friend,” the lean poet answers in a tight tone. The small coil of fear in your belly grows into a full-blown snake as you realize you might still fall and your grip on V tightens harshly in your fear. He looks down at you and clenches his jaw, something in his eyes shifting as he comes to the same conclusion. He growls deep in his throat and suddenly Griffon shoots higher, bringing you above the lip of the edge of what remains of the other side of the bridge with a triumphant howl. Griffon flaps a few more times, bringing you farther over the edge as V swings his body and lets go, rolling onto himself to take the worst of the impact himself.

V grunts heavily as his shoulder strikes the pavement, you landing on his chest as he’d planned. The two of you pause a moment to catch your breath after the near miss. He chuckles against you as his arms relax, letting you sit up to take a look at his shoulder. He dutifully holds still as you probe the joint, checking for any damage.

“I think you’re good, except for the bruise you’re bound to get,” you inform him after you conclude your brief exam. He smiles and sits up with a sigh, offering you a hand up once he stands again. It’s only as you rise that you realize you dropped one of your crutches.

“Damnit, I lost a crutch!” you exclaim in frustration, glancing around on the off chance it landed on this side. V looks too, but the area is devoid of the strange contraption. You sigh but resolve yourself to make do with just the one.

 I didn’t really need them that much anymore, but still…

“Shall we see if there’s something you could use instead?” V asks thoughtfully, but you shake your head.

“It should be fine. Let’s keep going,” you insist with a grim smile. He nods and steps forward toward what the building at the end of the tracks. Your eyes widen as you approach, seeing the shipping containers precariously balanced near another thick root. V walks over to a hideous demonic spout, green ooze leaking from its orifice in a slow, viscous stream. He hums happily as he reaches inside the gap and pulls out what looks like a chunk of brain tissue with red strings coming off it and stuffs it in his pocket. The sight reminds you of your nightmare and you shiver uncomfortably.

“Uh, what’s that for?” you ask quietly.

“It’s a Niddhog hatchling. They can be useful occasionally,” he replies mysteriously as the spout-like structure dissolves. You push your disgust away as you follow him into the building through a door on the side, passing several orange construction dividers along the way. You descend a set of stairs into a storage area, crossing it quickly and without interruption.

The street below is strangely clear, the unusual void of debris and vehicles making you tense uneasily. Your instincts are proven correct as you and V enter a side lot, red webbing blocking your escape as two Empusa climb out of portals, a third green one flying overhead. You draw your sword and drop your remaining crutch, descending into a low crouch. V flicks his cane to the side and Shadow’s form appears in a cloud of black shards, Griffon not far behind as V’s arms lighten considerably. The Empusa don’t stand a chance, dropping quickly to your group.

But the fight isn’t over – a pair of Caina and a pair of Antenora wriggle through their own portals, a slightly more difficult challenge but one you know you can handle with V at your back.

“I’ll take the one on the left!” you shout to him, sprinting forward to aim a low slice at the belly of the nearest Antenora. It hits, but you have to hit the ground as the demon swings back at you with one of its massive cleavers. From your position below, you carefully turn the sword and jab it up under the creatures jaw, the tip poking out through its head in a shower of blood. It starts to dissolve as you withdraw the blade, standing quickly to face your next target.

One of the Caina steps toward you slowly, and you remember the day Nero taught you about these ugly beasts as you wait for it to slash at you with its scythe. The moment it does, you duck and roll, barely able to somersault between its legs with the sword in hand. Once you’re behind it, you drive the blade into its back with a backwards thrust. Feeling its hot blood splash against your crouched form makes you grin in triumph. Your body aches as you stand; the somersault hadn’t been very graceful. A wince of discomfort crosses your face as you watch V clean up the last Caina with ease.

 It’s amazing how in sync we are, how much we trust one another in a battle.

Then again, it was easy to trust the man who had saved your life before he even knew your name.

“Shall we?” V murmurs, bringing your attention back to the present. You nod and clean your blade, sheathing it cautiously and getting your crutch from where you had dropped it.

You barely manage to catch your breath before the next fight begins, another group of Hellbats and Antenora crawling into existence to try to murder you. They fall much the same as the last ones did, and you share another grin with your partner as you continue forward. He exclaims softly a moment later as another growth of roots comes into view, but this one has a strange gap in it, oozing green pus from the crevice. It smells horrendous, like an infected wound that’s turning gangrenous. You see V reach inside his pocket and pull out the hatchling as you try not to think about what the strange orifice resembles.

He places the little thing in the opening and it wriggles within. After a moment, the structure turns a ghastly shade of green and shatters, a gush of the disgusting fluid spraying across the pavement and barely falling short of where you stand and you retch harshly.

To your disappointment, there’s nothing of note in the small area revealed by the roots disappearance, and you and V trudge onward once more. Another few Caina and Antenora try their luck and fall without much fuss as you enter a marketplace. Sandwich board signs dot the cobblestone area advertising organic produce and boasting about their quality. The green stalls themselves stand much the same as they may have before the infestation, the only significant differences being that all the food is long rotted, flies hovering above boxes of spoiled fruit happily as the sickly-sweet scent tickles your nostrils.

You force down your disgust as your eyes sweep the area and find more of the human shaped husks crowding the pavilion. You block them from your awareness as you follow V, but as you step forward you feel your sword catch on something. You look down to see what caused the sharp tug at your belt to see the grey remains crumble into dust, leaving only the plantlike red fibers, still forming the shape of a human being vaguely as they wave in the breeze.

The sight makes your skin prickle in revulsion, your stomach rolling as you physically retch for what feels like the thousandth time today, your back arching into the motion as saliva floods your mouth in preparation to vomit. You close your eyes as V walks over to you, taking deep breaths and counting internally to soothe your emotions back into submission. His tattooed hand rests on the small of your back as you gather yourself, only speaking once you manage to stand straight again.

“Like a reflection in a glass, like shadows in the water,” he comments gloomily, rubbing a small circle on your lower back before his hand drops away. You give him a shaky nod and step forward, rapidly approaching the base of the root. You can see where it reaches the ground ahead, a strangely wormlike creature hovering nearby. You take one last look at the marketplace and spot a red telephone booth.

 Maybe Nico got the phone working by now!

You hurry to the booth excitedly, seeing the flickering backlight indicating it still has power only to realize the flaw in your plan; you have no coins. V reaches you with a smirk, unsure why you’re so focused on the booth but following along anyway.

“V, do you have any change? We might be able to call Nico! I gave her the phone from my apartment,” you explain to him and he barks out a laugh in understanding. He fishes around in his pockets for a moment, finally pulling out a single coin with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Before you can snatch it from his long fingers, he steps into the booth himself and slides the coin in. You hurriedly recite your old phone number and cross your fingers as he dials.

A surge of joy envelops you as you hear V speak into the mouthpiece, telling Nico where to meet you. He hangs up quickly, the conversation brief. As he steps out of the booth, you hear the loud engine of Nico’s van approaching above you and you look at V in confusion. His emerald eyes shoot up as Nico’s van comes into view, almost seeming to fly as it comes down from above you, and you can hear Nico’s loud exclamation as she loses control of the vehicle.

 Oh no…

There isn’t enough time to finish the thought as V springs into action, leaping off the top of the booth and using Griffon to give him a tiny bit more lift. He turns and Shadow appears out of nowhere, her heavy paws smashing against the top of Nico’s van to force it to the ground in an echoing crash. V grunts as he lands in a low crouch nearby, casually pushing his hair out of his eyes as he stands straight again.

You gape at V, your open mouth and wide eyes making him chuckle as he glances at you, his steps already bringing him to Nico’s van where it rests under a small green sign that reads “Bael the Butcher”. You shake your head and follow him, eager to greet Nico.

“Hey guys, long time no see! Phone was a good call, Y/N!” Nico says, emphasizing her pun with a smug grin as she steps out to give you a hug. You roll your eyes but laugh with her easily.

“Dang, is that the root?” she asks you as she gets her bearings, her eyes drifting to the huge demonic structure in the next area.

“Yes, would you mind waiting for us? We may need to make a hasty exit,” V replies, twirling his cane absentmindedly. Nico nods seriously and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it as she leans against the van to wait and watch as you and V face whatever new monstrosity awaits you.

[inuashnar1]

Chapter 3

It was a chilly night in October. Perhaps one of the coldest to date. This kind of weather was the type that makes the chatter in your bones cease, the feeling in your lips to fade, and for the lids of your eyes to grow heavy with a sweet blessing of hibernating sleep, as Death smiles lulling you closer into her skeletal embrace. 

The Dragon was not too disturbed by the weather at hand. Her body, armoured with fantastical scales, was a self regulating thermostat. The shield of her skin kept the fiery hearth of her heat within her body, and as such, she was never disturbed by the shifting weather that raged past the entrance of her home. The only part of her that was fallible was her underbelly. Flaxen yellow in colour, her belly and chest were not covered in the tin scales of how the rest of her body was bequeathed. Rather, it was a soft silky skin, that was paper thin to the touch, with an elasticity eerily similar to the skin of a mammal, not a reptile. 

Surprisingly, the Dragon had no scars. Even though she lived for years past accurate calculation methods, there was not a single scratch or blemish upon any of her jade green scales, nor her soft underbelly. Maybe she was careful? Maybe she just had good luck? Maybe she just couldn't be bothered to wrestle with the dragons of her youth, rolling and clawing with the others in adolescent agony. She was never really interested in other Dragons. In life, or in partnership. She found herself seeking solitude - solace away from others. The only way to get things done, was if you did it yourself, and so, she relied on no one else to do her bidding for her, to take her worries for her, or to even care for her. 

Until the Magpie. 

The small bird could barely fit into her palm. It tittered around all day, sometimes crying at the smallest inconvenience, like a feather out of place, or a sad thought within it's small pea brain. It never made a mess of her cave - in fact it was the same cave the Magpie had also adopted as her own home -" Do you like my nest Dragon?? Look! Here's where I put that gold talisman of that eastern traveller you told me about. You tell such wonderful stories Dragon, I could listen to you forever.". 

But the small bird did make a mess of her heart. How did she end up caring so much for this small little black and white chicken that marched in and refused to leave? She had eaten magpies before! They were her favourite snack - especially when they were roasted and dusted with a pith of sea salt. But the Magpie feared no one - and certainly not her. She could see the tenacity in the Magpie's beady black eyes as she would spot a smooth stick, or silver shard, wings and back hunched over with frightful curiosity, ready to pounce and happily hop away - Dragon be dammed.  

She was a greedy little bird, and the Dragon loved to see the Magpie satiated. However, this cold October evening bore strange fruit. The Magpie was ill. The Dragon first became suspicious when the Magpie didn't emerge from her nest for several days on end. This scared the Dragon. The Magpie was a regular occurrence of not only annoyance and stupidity, but joy! To be withheld from her miniature friend was as if she was being withheld from flying. It wasn't fair.

  Out of worry, and a tinge of curiosity, the Dragon decided to move the Magpie's nest closer to her hoard in the belly of the cave. Her long green tail slinking out of her abode, and into the nest's perch at the mouth of the cave. When the Dragon's tail touched the blistering wind, her tail felt as though it were dipped into an ether of sub-zero viscous liquid. She understood immediately what had happened. The Dragon hastened her speed, while still being careful of the Magpie and her nest, and swiftly cradled the Magpie's house in a gentle squeeze with her tail. And in one smooth motion, she slid her extension into the depths of the cave nearby her roost. 

The Magpie's nest was a tangle of the Dragon's found objects, and various objects of the Magpie's own discovery. The Dragon had yet to really see the nest the Magpie was making, and remaking, and redoing, and tearing down, and building again, as she rarely left her roosting horde. In fact, the Magpie's nest was out of the Dragon's cave, just on the lip of its mouth, and out of view. 

The Dragon knew the Magpie liked using her treasures for her project, and was pleasantly surprised to see what else the Magpie had been procuring. A chunk of a wicker hat, dried red roses and their stems, locks of hair cut from the children in the town below, a piece of a note that read i'll let you have the last one. "What lovely sentiments," thought the Dragon, eyes softening at the assortment of objects nestled into one another, folded, tangled, like a maze with no beginning or end. 

The Dragon decided to stop using her tail to poke at the tangle and try a different, more invasive tactic. It was truly a nest in that it could also be called a knot - impossible to unravel. The Dragon slowly moved her giant paws to pick up the lighter than air bundle, and held it in her left palm. "My apologies," she mumbled, as her right talons pinched the nest and ripped the spherical top asunder. The nest was a little treasure chest with a precious item inside, and as the lid was lifted, there was the Magpie, curled up into a small puff of feathers and debris lying on her side. She looked like she was sleeping, but experiencing a terrible dream. 

Her body seemed larger than normal due to her feathers fluffing up to triple their normal laying consistency. In the winter most birds do this, and the Magpie was no different. The Dragon couldn't even see her head. But the Magpie seemed small. Even if she was 'bigger', she felt smaller. The Dragon let her tail glide up from behind her,  and she gently pressed the tip of it to the Magpie's downy chest,  and listened- Bu-bump...........Bu-bump...........Bu-bump........

Slow.....but still here. The Dragon sighed in relief. She might have been just in time to save her friend. Then, the Magpie's eyes peaked open from barely visible black eyelids. "Dragon.... is that you?" the small bird whispered. It was so soft, the Dragon thought she was hearing things at first. "Yes. It's me." the Dragon whispered back, careful to not speak to loud, lest she disturb the Magpie's weaken stupor. 

"Where am I?" the Magpie said, weakly blinking her onyx eyes. "I brought you in. It's getting cold out there. And... I was worried." "You? Worried about me? Oh Dragon, you know I can take care of myself," the Magpie teased chuckling to her self, but then winced, right leg recoiling, but left leg stiff and shaking with violent demand. "Are you in pain?" asked the Dragon, worry rising by the second. "I-I'm fine... Just fell... that's all..." The Dragon didn't know if she believed that. The Magpie was so terribly agile on her legs that a 'fall' would do nothing to her petit little frame. She had seen the Magpie fall asleep and plummet off the side of her nest into the rocky waves below, and return with barely a scratch on her body. The Dragon didn't appreciate being lied to. 

"...What happened Magpie?" The Dragon asked. She was still cradling the Magpie in her nest, and at this point, she could feel the Magpie shrink even smaller, trying to bury herself into her down, past her body, and hide away into the tangle of treasures that she lay upon. 

"I was in town... And I was hungry Dragon. I was so hungry.  It's been hard foraging this winter. Not a lot of grain this year. And the Bakery was open. They had left out some of their old bread from the day before, out in the back alley. I was just going to take a small piece of bread. Nothing too much. I don't usually take anything, I don't really! But, I was so hungry. So I grabbed a small loaf in my beak but then..." The Magpie stopped. Her voice trailing into silence. Then her breathing turned into stuttering hiccups that shook her entire body. Small bones quaking under her tiny gasps and coughs.   The Magpie began to cry. She had her right leg fully tucked into her stomach, foot hugging herself,  but her left leg... It looked as if it was barely there. Just hanging on. The Dragon took her tail and lifted some of the Magpie's downy feathers around her left thigh. Her bone was broken. 

"Who did this to you?" The Dragon could feel anger bubble inside of her, a rising roar that was heating her chest, and steadily clawing at her throat. Threatening to boil into the crown of her mighty head. She was starting to feel steam escape her nose and the colour of crimson red began to fill her vision - 

"...No one. No one did this Dragon." 

The Dragon felt her rage quieten. She quickly swallowed it, and felt the inferno burn down the sides of her long throat. What do you mean by 'no-one' the Dragon wanted to bite but the Magpie let out a sigh, centring herself it seemed.

  "I wasn't paying attention. The Baker came outside and tossed a wooden slat on the pile and I was... I was pinned. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to be caught! I just pushed and pushed and pushed and finally made it move just enough for me to get my leg away but, I was so scared. I was so scared Dragon. I wanted to yell for help. For anyone to hear me, but, what if the Baker found me? What if he thought I was stealing his bread? What would he have done? What if I didn't make it out? What if I was still pinned there? What if-"

  The Dragon wrapped up the Magpie in her paw and brought her to her chest. Her poor sweet Magpie! What if the Magpie didn't make it back? What if the Baker found the Magpie? What would he have done? Why wasn't she there for the Magpie when this happened? The Dragon shook with fear, and clasped the Magpie closer to her chest, pressing the little bird into her flaxen yellow flesh. She could feel her giant heart pounding against the walls of her chest, and into the little bird that was flush against her. 

They were still for a moment. The Dragon's heart beat pounding so loudly through the silence of the cavern. She let out a sigh. This was nice. Having the Magpie close. Close enough to hold. To silently be with her. "I'm so happy you found me." The Dragon looked down at the Magpie, eyes wide with surprise. "I didn't know where you were! I was worried about you! You're normally here! Around me anyways. But you were gone for so long, I wasn't sure if you had left me or..." "I wouldn't have left you Dragon. Not without telling you first...oh, You moved my nest."

The Dragon felt her cheeks flush a viridian green. In the entirety of their interactions, not once did the Dragon ever enter into the Magpie's space, let alone, let the Magpie come this close to her. The proximity between the two of them was frightfully new, and intensely exciting. Stimulating, in fact. The Dragon felt embarrassed by knowing she had willingly crossed an unspoken agreement between the two of them, for the sake of curiosity. "I-I wanted to make sure you were okay! I-" "Dragon. It's fine. I'm just happy that you moved it closer to you. Moved me closer to you." "Oh." Well, that was unexpected. "Uh - are you - how are you, feeling?" the Dragon flushed an even deeper vert than before. "I feel better Dragon. My leg-" "Oh! Your leg! Here - let me..." The Dragon set the Magpie gently down on hoard space beside her. Then, she plucked a small 1inch twig from the ground, one of her long whiskers from her face, and wrapped the Magpie's thigh in a small sturdy splint. Instantly the Magpie relaxed, the support from the make-shift splint cooling the worry in her mind. "That's... much better. Thank you." The Magpie cooed. She felt warm. The Dragon was so warm. Her chest was this wonderful heated flesh that let the Magpie feel her toes come alive again. Even now, away from the magical creature's chest, she could still feel the Dragon's heart beat, pulsing into her feathery body. The blood wanted to rush back to all of her senses, and she let it. It pushed through her body, coursing through frozen patches of permafrost that had been laid from days sitting out in the cold. Thank goodness the Dragon found her, otherwise, who knows where she would have ended up. The Magpie looked up at the Dragon and found herself locked in her gaze. The Dragon had been staring at the Magpie. She felt a bit naked, truth be told. No creature had ever looked at her the way the Dragon was now. The Dragon's hazel-green eyes peering at the Magpie with gentle abandon, scanning her body and lingering on her leg. With slits for pupils, she reminded the Magpie of a giant jungle cat that was always curled up on it's favourite tree branch. Tail lazily whipping depending on her mood. But unlike a jungle cat's predatory side-long gaze, the Dragon's gaze was gentle, but hesitant. As if she wanted to ask the Magpie something. "Yes?" the Magpie said, "Are you okay Dragon?" "...I can offer you one more thing." "Oh? What is that?" "I'll just need your permission... to touch you. It's nothing too serious, I have something that will speed up the healing, but I will have to touch your leg again... Is that alright?" "Of course Dragon. You have my permission.""I have your permission?" "To touch my leg - yes." "Oh, very good then." The Dragon bent down to the Magpie's level. Her long tail, unfurled from behind her, and gently lifted the downy ruff covering the Magpie's thigh, which was now being held steadfastly by the Dragon's make-shift split. Then, the Dragon inched her long face closer and closer to the Magpie's thigh until the Magpie could feel the Dragon breathing on her. Then the Magpie gasped. A wetness engulfed her leg. A serpentine wrap of warm liquid began trailing around her thigh, coiling around her leg but not moving the splint. The Dragon had her long tongue out, licking the Magpie's leg and covering her in saliva. The Magpie didn't know if she wanted to run, or melt. The Dragon was so gentle and slow. She wanted her to be more deliberate in her machinations, but the Dragon's delicate tongue felt delightful against her thigh, trailing itself up and down her leg and warmly petting the length of her broken limb. The feeling was so heavenly, but so very overwhelming. By the time the Dragon finished, the Magpie felt dizzy. Dizzy and dazed and thoroughly, thoroughly, spent. "What - what was that?" she gasped at the Dragon. 'Permissions' thrown out the window, the feeling was intoxicating and the Magpie, well. The Magpie was greedy. And she wanted more. "I applied some of my saliva to your leg. It will speed up the healing process... Dragon's saliva is a well known healing agent. I thought you knew?" It was the Magpie's turn to feel the flood of blood prickle her skin. The Dragon had no idea what she had done to her! The innocence of it all! It was just an innocent application of a well-known healing salve. "Oh! Yes! 'Healing Agent' of course I knew about that! Silly me. I was just, I was just surprised at the application technique of it, that's all..." "Yes, well the application of it - I did take some liberties in that department... I wanted you to feel comfortable and.... well taken care of." The Magpie's eyes widened in surprise. She looked at the Dragon again, who's green skin seem to be taking on a lovely forest green tenure, and slight trails of steam were leaving her nose. The Magpie, thought about all the passing moments of gentleness the Dragon had given her (not eating her alive being one of them), the way in which the Dragon loved to talk about flora fauna, her obsessive collection of stories from worlds near and far, the way in which the sunlight would strike her scales so perfectly making the Magpie's little heart run with excitement, her eyes, her stubbornness, her laziness, her voice, her smile, her quiet poise and seriousness when the Magpie would ask any question of any kind to her, her chuckle, her laugh, her worries, her fears, just her. The Dragon. And with a quiet breath in, a flood of realization ricochetted throughout her small bird brain hitting her so hard she almost fell flat onto her back.   She was in love with the Dragon.

[hadesburns]

in which, as the day demands, i kill something inside myself.

the massive white ship sings, howls, blares, and every flashing red light pulses with havoc, with longing, with nails through the veins in jaewon’s skin, the essence of the alliance vessel dragging at him, calling his name even as he flees through its hallways and tunnels, even as he pounds across its pristine, hallowed flooring. the heavy, thundering boots slow him down, legs wading through the artificial gravity like an ant through honey, but he presses on, he storms onward, his teeth clenched, his eyes burning, his fingers still wrapped like iron around the small, bruising wrist of his charge, the petite ward he’s halfway adopted.

every hallway in this cursed, expensive cruiser looks just like all the others, completely devoid of any traces of personality, any scraps of personal touches, anything reverent or holy, and jaewon has to check the convector beacon in the hand not dragging sonmi along behind him, the handheld equipment beeping purposefully at him in warning. it doesn’t rival the blaring redness of the ship’s own code red operations though, the signals going out to all hands on deck for the renegade hunt, alliance officers rising from whatever other tasks they had, to stretch across the ship in search of pirate captain yang jaewon and his crew. they’ll be descending on him and sonmi any second now, he can feel it, the needles beneath his skin poking out from the marrow of his bones, the hairs on the back of his standing, knotting, scratching, the ghosts on his heels clawing at him, threatening to yank his ankles out from under him as he runs.

but he stays stable, he stays immutable, he keeps pace with the throbbing of his own supernova heartbeat, never releasing sonmi’s grasp, never slowing down for corners or tight fits, never wavering from as straight a line as possible between themselves and their destination. he has to make it, he has to push forward, forward, forward, has to get sonmi to safety, has to get them all together again, safe, secure, out, out, out of this god-forsaken place, away from these prying eyes and fingers and hellish intentions. the alliance will rip them all to shreds, section them out like lab experiments, cut them into smaller and smaller pieces until they are nothing of themselves anymore.

jaewon can’t let that happen. he has to give them all their best fighting chance.

he races against time, against the thrumming of military-grade boots, uniformed and in unison, thudding down the stairwell behind them, muffling out the ragged huffs of breath heaving through sonmi’s nose and panting lips, louder than her small missteps, louder than her wide eyes, louder than her still-unfailing trust in him.

they reach the last leg of the journey, the hall yawning before them, reaching towards the exit bay pods at the end of it, where jaewon can imagine himself almost hearing henry’s arguing, harper’s rushing, mina’s frustration. it boils there, at the end of the line, and jaewon throws himself and sonmi towards it, full speed, full abandon, just as officers behind them open fire. the plasma shots ring out towards them and they duck occationally, one beam singeing sonmi’s coat, another flaring against his shoulder-- but jaewon is too much flame and fury to feel it, and sonmi is more blackhole than girl; they’ve chosen the wrong targets.

they reach the room at the end of the way, and jaewon nearly tosses sonmi into nine’s arms, spinning around to gather himself near to sid, who frantically works to close the blast door and trigger the locking mechanism, helping him as best he can. it works, but jaewon shoves a few travel crates in front of it, just for good measure.

“glad you decided to join us, asshole, where the hell have you been?” sid doesn’t look angry, but then again, he isn’t really looking at jaewon directly.

“sonmi saw some flowers, we decided to smell a few.”

the door bangs loudly as the alliance officers reach it and begin shooting at it from the other side, causing sid and jaewon to take a step back, blinking. jaewon turns and is relieved to note that everyone is loading up inside one of the pods; nine gathering as much material as possible that they might need and can hold, jinyi tearing off strips of her clothes to wrap around mina’s bleeding leg. harper’s fingers dig into henry’s clothes as he lays still unconscious in her arms, slowly whitening with each passing second. she and the captain exchange looks. “is he still…?” jaewon has never been one to falter his words, but the last of that sentence, the mere mention of the possibilities of a negative answer, the fact that there is any life teetering on the balance… he swallows thickly.

“still alive, yeah.” her voice is tight, flat, walled and barricaded from all emotion, just in case the avalanche breaks, just in case the floods come and her universe descends once again into a lonely catastrophe of one. she’s always been independent, always a storm in the black, always a legend in wry grins and versatile leathers, but henry is an anchor. for all of them, but especially for her.

jaewon ignores the tick, tick, ticking of the clock, a countdown in his head for just how long men survive wounds to the stomach, how long henry’s had his, how soon he needs to get back to kairos, get back to shiloh, get back to the ship they call home, the life they call theirs. kylynn’s out there somewhere, just out of view of the cruiser, flying the ship in the wings of solar stasis, ready to punch out of orbit, out and away from the alliance who had stolen the boat for a time. she’s waiting for them.

shiloh is waiting for them.

instead, he focuses on another kind of ticking, the kind associated with the bomb nine gingerly retrieves from his pack and sets it down on the far side of the room. jaewon helps him attach wires and cables into a nearby wall socket, the explosive simple enough that jaewon doesn’t feel like a complete idiot setting it up, but impressive enough to know it’ll take out a good chunk of the alliance cruiser ship, after they’ve managed to get far enough away. jaewon nods to his mercenary and nine sets the timer for five minutes.

five minutes, that’s how long they have to just hold off the officers and get bundled up in the escape pod.

the captain rushes over to where sid is programming the coordinates into the pod, his fingers shaking and messy, sweat beading on his forehead as he obviously fights to pay more attention to his task than all of mina’s groans and hisses, her blood staining the floor beneath her, staining the fabric of jinyi’s scraps and skirts as the two women fight to properly tourniquet the wound. “is the pod launch immediate?”

“what?”

“last time i was on one of these, the pod had a countdown of like fifteen seconds-- some kind of safety procedure thing-- do we have to worry about that?”

sid actually pauses, his eyes scanning the dials and electronics before him. “fuck.”

“it’s okay i’ll take care of it. just program everything correctly and--”

the door bursts open just a hair, a few too many inches, just wide enough for the alliance bastard on the opposite side to fire through with minimal accuracy, sending sid into a slew of curses and mutterings. jaewon ducks under a blaze of blaster fire, but aims his own pistol at the hole and unleashes a few bullets, hearing at least one of the men cry out and hit the ground. while they’re semi-distracted, jaewon races back over to the door and shoves hard against it again, relocking it and pushing the crates back into place.

“sid! what’s the fucking situation?!”

jaewon turns to catch sid wiping at his own brow, his eyes panicked and wide, dark brown-on-white plates in the center of his face, his jaw strains, his breathing hitches, and the captain already knows whatever is about to come from his mouth is something terrible, something unfair, something harrowing that already eats away at the hacker’s mind as it races to figure out some alternative.

“sid,” he tries again, lowering his tone but increasing the force of his words. “talk to me. tell me what it is.”

“captain, get inside the pod.”

something in the air around sid pauses and calms, the hurricane in his blood melting to a harmonious stillness, and jaewon knows that silence, knows it like the back of his own eyelids, knows it like the voices calling from the end of his sanity, knows it like he knows the exact tint of the taste of blood, the way it salts and burns and sobers. jaewon recognizes it from years of trudging through mud and guts and filth, years growing from a brown-eyed boy to a golden-eyed monster, knows it from the millions dead between his fingers; the way oblivion descends on a person, perches on their chest and shoulders like a great bird of prey, rests on them as a shroud.

“no.”

“captain--”

“tell me what it is first.”

sid finally looks up at him from the control panel, finally braces himself for the steel in jaewon’s gaze, both hardening themselves into what they need to be, what their positions demand of them. sid was a soldier once, jaewon remembers-- it’s so easy to forget, so, so easy because sidereus still smiles sometimes, still laughs with his whole face sometimes, still learns to love and fear death, still learns to extend beyond his trauma in ways neither jaewon nor mina can go anymore. jaewon shoots a glance at mina now, who is struggling to stand, gritting her teeth and hobbling towards them.

jaewon steps away from the door hesitantly, his gun still trained on it as he comes around closer to where sid stands, only stopping just a few steps beyond the barrier of the pod, so the rest of the crew can hear them. so mina doesn’t step beyond the barrier. he already knows what this is, but he doesn’t want anyone coming out from the pod in protest.

sid takes the bait but only just a little, taking only a step away from the controls panel beside the pod door-frame, just enough to explain in short, terse expels of words. “the door only closes from the outside. it’s got to be locked in. this pod wasn’t meant for human people. i don’t know. i can’t override it. so.”

a beat passes between them while somni and jinyi inhale terrified gasps, harper and nine frown harder, exchanging looks, and mina grits her teeth harder. “you’re not staying.” her voice is clipped and furious even at the implication of it.

“mina, somebody has to close the doors and keep these assholes at bay.”

“fuck no,” is her immediate response. jaewon’s mind flashes back to two nights ago, stepping into the hallways and catching the way she’d kissed sidereus, the desperation in her body, the ache, the pain--

the door bangs again, with something harder this time. they must have gone to get something heavier than their bodies to break against the door, judging from the indentations bursting from it.

sid ignores them, ignores mina, focuses on jaewon, and when their eyes meet, jaewon knows they are no longer a pirate captain and a space hacker-- once upon a time, they’d been brothers in arms, once upon a time, sidereus had been a soldier, and jaewon had been a sergeant. “jaewon. we don’t have time.” his eyes glance over to the still-ticking bomb. “get on the goddamn pod.”

“yang,” harper’s strain reaches into jaewon’s veins, and through it, he hears henry’s labored breathing, the small gurgle at the base of his throat. they don’t have time for this.

“hell fucking no, you’re not about to--” mina starts forward but nine grabs her, keeps her planted and while she would be enough of a match for him on a good day, her injury and the off-kilterness of the situation has her equilibrium in shreds. “nine, no! fuck off! sid! sidereus, i swear to god!”

but sid only looks at jaewon, that infuriating grin tugging on the corner of his lip, the one jaewon has always hated, the one he’d punched him for not a month ago. “i’m not part of your crew. remember?”

the captain inhales deeply, jaw tightened, fists locking, everything in him razoring to this point, to this moment. there’s just… no fucking way. “you’re right, you’re not my crew.” he puts a hand on sid’s shoulder, as though he’s about to commend him, before smashing the butt-end of his gun across his face, kneeing him in the stomach, and then kicking his ass into the pod when he’s doubled over. sidereus crashes into both mina and nine, a small scream breaking from jinyi’s lips. “so don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

he steps back to slam a palm down on the pod’s closing mechanism, the crystal doors shutting air-tight, before shooting the console three times as well, to make sure it’s as irreversible as possible. sparks fly out and jolt towards him and he turns away from it, lifting an arm as the thing catches a small fire, and a countdown begins. fifteen seconds. two bullets left.

jaewon takes a moment to block out the others, their shocked cries and angry exclamations, to just think about his bird, think about her halls and echoes, think about the way she glides and shakes, curves and hurts and tumbles, think about the scars in her hull, the pieces he still has yet to replace, all the things left undone, all the places left unvisited. he’s always felt the ship a part of himself, always felt as though she is the missing half of his soul he hadn’t even realized he’d been born without before meeting her. there is one thing in this verse that jaewon loves wholeheartedly, and it is that ship. he aches with it, he burns with it, he haunts his own history for it.

a millisecond he closes his eyes and remembers the way it had felt to cling to a rooftop on valluria, dust and smoke and sand flying everywhere, and watch as the great hulking form of shiloh burst over the edge into his vision, the way one minute, everything in his life had been all bones and rugged skin, all flayed backs and bleeding sores, and degradation, and humans-- and the next minute, it had been just about her, just about this collective machine of gears and engines and a soul so large he couldn’t hardly breathe looking into it. he’d never been so impressed, he’s never fallen so hard for anything else. she’d brought him the whole sky and all the stars, and he’d spent sixteen years reaching for as many of them as he could.

but she is more than just his home now, she is more than just his soul. she houses more than just him and all his ego, all his inferno and chaos, she opens her wingspan and brings in other orphans as well, a siren song across the black, to attract other wayward, desolate rebels as well. turncoats and traitors, homeless and dangerous. a makeshift family. and they need to return to her, and she needs them to return.

his eyes shift quickly. the bomb. a minute and a half. they’ll get to shiloh’s hull in time, they’ll get out of the blast zone and the alliance won’t follow them, too injured, at least temporarily, to give proper chase. a head start. he has to give them their best fighting chance. isn’t that what leaders do?

he comes back to himself to the sound of mina cursing loudly at him and jinyi crying, pounding against the glass with bloody fists. sid is on the floor and holding his bleeding head but he’s alive at least, and harper is crawling out from under henry to glare at him like the selfish bastard she no doubt thinks he is, and nine is silent but tall as always. sonmi stands like an island, the way she always does, the way she always will.

“you fucking fuckhead, what the hell are you doing?! you really are the stupidest goddamn motherfucker, yang jaewon, i am going to kill--”

“jaewon please! please don’t do this please, please open up, by the gods, please please…!”

“jae no! you’re the captain! i’m not even part of your crew, you don’t need me, i’m--”

“yang, why do you always gotta do shit on your own like this?”

“oppa…?”

he just looks at them for a few seconds-- four, to be precise. and preciseness is important right about now, he supposes, but when he lifts a hand and puts it on the glass, over where jinyi’s fists connect to the wall separating them, everyone falls silent, except for jinyi who cries harder. he hopes somehow the words they never said to each other, the words they can never say to each other now, can be embedded in this movement, imbued inside this one singularity, this hiccupped space of two seconds.

mina can run the ship, she’s always been better than him at everything, always perfectly capable of handling people and missions just fine on her own. she’s more like vera than he ever was. sonmi is still scared and small inside herself but she’s more healed now than ever and the others, kylynn and jinyi especially, have pieced her jigsaw puzzle heart back together, and will continue to do so. henry will be angry with him when he wakes up of course, but… he has kairos and harper, safe, together, mending. nine knows death as intimately as jaewon does, he’ll look after them all. jinyi… beautiful, shining jinyi, full of the stars she so fears, full of the life she so yearns for, she’s found her family. in all this, he regrets her the most, regrets not kissing her longer, not giving her more of himself, not telling her anything he’d ever wished to have the courage to say. sidereus will get over it. kairos, damn him, will probably say a prayer for his soul.

and shiloh will burn on without him.

he steps away and bows, low and deferential to them all, and when he straightens up again, he is nothing of the burning sun they’ve all come to know him as, he is nothing of the maelstrom firestorm that’s been branded across his skin, his eyes, his soul, since the day he’d woken up beside a dumpster on valluria, he is nothing of his tyrannical heritage, the wars and evil bled into him from his heart to his fingertips.

his eyes are gold, but not blazing. just warm. a boy finally of light, instead of only heat. a boy finally of treasure, instead of constantly searching for it. a boy finally as calm and settled as summer sand dunes, for once not barren or dry, just… composed.

somewhere, another orphan on valluria is looking up through the light of kalidasa’s fury and seeing the stars. and wishing. and hoping. and reaching. and things will continue on without him.

“it’s been my greatest honor… to fly with you all.” his baritone is calm. finally a star, instead of a sun. “take care of my boat.”

the pod launches off, quick as a heartbeat. one blink they’re all there gnashing their teeth at them ( beautiful and tattered and half-crazed, just the way he’s always loved them ), and then the next there’s nothing but empty space.

and he blinks out at it, the void, and realizes it’s not void at all. it’s not dark, it’s not cold. he’s spent most of his life needing the sky more than air, more than life, but he’s always found space to be freezing, so unlike the vallurian weather he’s always been more accustomed to. for as much love as he’s held for it, he’s always found space a frigid bitch of a mistress, all wintery and empty, yearning and hollowing, like the ghosts on his heels, the frayed edges of death constantly on his back, in his dreams.

but just now, this moment, the sky is so full of stars he can barely breathe. the verse opens up in front of him and shines, shimmers, yawns into a tapestry of diamond light, and he’s aware dimly of the door banging open again behind him, wide enough now that men are pushing through, aware dimly that they’ve come in, yanked the gun from his limp fingers, forced him down to his knees, shouting and braying commands at him. he’s aware of their guns locked and loaded against his head, the cold metal melting against the heat of his body, the men sneering threats at him that he doesn’t fear, hasn’t feared for years and years and years, but he can’t hear them, he can’t even hear his ghosts anymore. the silence swallows him whole and he understands just how bone-weary he is, how tired, how ready. how ready he is. for this.

he doesn’t look away from the large window, he doesn’t tear his golden, mechanical eyes from the vision of the universe spreading out before him. the second most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, after shiloh.

heaven. or hell.

somewhere behind him, a spark on the bomb catches and alights, grows and bursts out. somewhere before him, a star flashes and a supernova explodes. if he squints, he’s pretty sure he can see shiloh flaring to life, the lights of her hull flipping on as she turns around and burns out into the black.

[owfemslashexchange]

Thaw

For @prplxdpgnwn

Prompt was Zarya/Mei first kiss.

From @vrunkas to @prplxdpngwn 

Thaw

The thing that always dims itself in Mei’s memories is the cold.

Stupid, considering the snow and wind and brutal climate are all what make it Antarctica in the first place, but it’s easy to forget looking over pictures, or reading reports from the warm safety of her office. She remembers being cold, of course, but there is something about the freezing bite and how quickly it happens that cheapens with distance.

She flips the papers in her lap, paper clipped together so they don’t scatter with the movement of the helicopter. She hunkers down in her seat. Her breath plumes in front of her.

She should have remembered, of course. But now it is far too late.

Across from her, Zarya mimics the motion. Hands tucked into her sleeves, slipping further down into her seat. The fur on the hat she is wearing ruffles in the frigid breeze. As soon as they are out, it will be frozen stiff with collected crystals. Mei remembers that much clearly.

Zarya’s lips move. She is saying something. Mei moves to grab the headset hanging on the back of her seat but Zarya waves her off. Leans forward to touch her arm. The restraints keeping them in place stretched to their limit, only her fingertips, ghosting across Mei’s sleeve.

She isn’t wearing gloves.

Mei doesn’t really know how that’s possible.

“Unnecessary.” Zarya says, yelling now to be heard. “It was not important.”

Mei smiles. She can’t help it. There something so earnest about Zarya. Open and honest and innocent. It clashes with the image she presents. The muscled arms, the thick thighs, the scar.

A tough woman. An exposed nail, something to rip and tear and catch. But she is sweet, honestly, in her own honest way and Mei is truly glad for the company.

She’s surprised really, that Overwatch has even agreed to let her come back up here. Winston hadn’t seemed thrilled at the idea, but maybe that’s exactly why they let her go.

Winston and Lena and Angela, bless their hearts, are not Jack and Gabe and Ana. They try their best, it’s true. But the experience isn’t there. The background isn’t there. And without it…well, it just doesn’t really feel like Overwatch.

The helicopter dips, once, dramatically.

Zarya’s fingers slip from Mei’s sleeve, press once clumsily against her breasts.

“I’m sorry–” she starts to say over the rev of the blades above them as the helicopter evens back out. “I did not mean–”

And then they dip again. Stomach plummeting drop. Only to even out. The helicopter has begun its jerky descent.

They are almost there.

The Bastion unit in the corner lets out a series of beeps and Zarya glares at them. She sits back, pulls the headset down from behind her and pulls it awkwardly over her hat. Mei mirrors the motion. The Bastion has been strapped in, but there is no headset near the chair. For a moment Mei feels bad, but then the Bastion’s quiet beeping is drowned out by the oppressive silence of the headphones.

“Tell me again,” Zarya says, “why it is we brought that thing?”

“Bastion is going to be my research assistant,” Mei says. She glances over to the Omnic. The little head light flashes to match their rate of descent. “They’re amazingly resilient, you know. I’ve been running tests and the Bastion Unit was specifically designed for all sorts of harsh…environments.” Mei can feel the lecture in her. The readiness to teach, to explain. But Zarya’s gaze has glassed over just the slightest bit.

“Sorry,” Mei says with a grin. “I didn’t mean to rant.”

Zarya blinks. Frowns again, her chin tucking into the fluffy fur collar on her coat. “No,” she says. “You did not do anything wrong. I asked. You answered. But I do not like it and I do not trust it.”

Her voice, over the headset is tinny, a small filter of static. A disconnect. A separation. The Omnic Crisis hit more than just Russia. Mei remembers London. Mei remembers the articles and video feeds and the screaming.

The helicopter settles, weight settles back into Mei’s stomach, her feet. Grounded again.

Bastion beeps and trills a little victory chorus and Mei smiles.

The Omnic Crisis is far behind them.

“The real question,” Mei says, “is why are you here?”

But Zarya has already slipped off her headphones, is already unsnapping her restraints and is pulling her body up. And over the idling roar, Mei’s question is lost.

The snow, fresh fallen as it is, still crunches under Mei’s boots as she climbs out of the helicopter. Loaded down with bags and cases of equipment, she sinks a little into the crust of ice. She tugs her legs forward, breaking through further with her shin. Two of the duffles she is holding, scrape along the surface.

“You are silly,” Zarya’s voice says, yelling. Before Mei can turn there is pressure on the back of her jacket and then a little touch of weightlessness, until her feet once more touch the frozen, solid snow top. Zarya’s hand takes the duffles from her, hefts them over her own shoulder.

The skin of her fingers is already raw looking. Red. They’ll need to do something about that before Zarya comes back out. Modern medical miracles can do a lot for small frostbite cases, but Mei would sooner not risk it.

Antarctica is already a place of tragedy and loss for her.

They don’t need to tempt fate.

Bastion has converted form. They roll across the snow on tank-like treads with two bags balanced on the flat top.

In the distance, the arctic facility looms. Hulking and blurry in the falling snow. Grey shadow shapes. Ghosts and ghosts.

Mei pauses. Her heels sink into the snow crust as she looks on at the place that she had known as home. The wind nips at her. The fur on both her suit and Zarya’s has frozen as she knew it would. Little crystals of ice clinging to the fur.

Zarya must have realized Mei has stopped. She turns. Under the goggles and scarf little of her expression is visible. She says something but it is lost in the wind, in the hug of the scarf. Just a whisper of it.

Mei waves her hand, brushes it off. Behind them the helicopter lifts off.

They are truly alone.

Why did she chose to do this again?

—

“You’ve settled in then? Equipment is working okay?” Winston’s voice is clearer than his image on the little screen. Distorted movement of his fur in the feed. A constant flow, like seaweed.

Mei crosses her legs, perched awkwardly in the office chair. Her knees bump the desk and both her coffee and the holo pad shake.

“No problems so far,” she says. “Everything I’ve unpacked survived the trip. And my…assistants have seemed to…”

It’s been two days but she cannot say they are getting along. Bastion has been perfectly content, trundling around in the old labs, appearing every so often with a bit of detritus or chunk of wiring for inspection. Zarya has seemed…less happy. But there is a small gym in the dormitory halls and Mei’s coworkers had left behind everything they’d had. Some permafrost damage, but the weights Zarya had found seem to be doing an okay job of keeping her occupied.

“I think Bastion misses their bird,” Mei says, “but everything so far is…is fine. I’m sorry it took me longer than anticipated to get the feed up and running I have not been. Uhh. Been down to the labs yet.”

Winston’s paw moves in front of the video, clips out of the frame, tracks back. Waving her off at 240p.

“Take your time, take your time,” Winston says. “No one expects you to rush. Uhh. That is. Uhh.”

She was sent here on a mission. He is trying to walk the delicate line between duty and discretion. Decency.

“It’s okay, Winston,” Mei says. “I understand.”

“You do? I mean. Yeah, of course you do. You volunteered. May I just…just say that we’re all–”

Mei does not want to hear it. Cannot right now. She makes a face. Leans toward the screen.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m losing you up here. Might be…” she moves her lips. Feigns the breakup. “Wind,” she says. “I’ll contact you in two days.” She moves her lips again, smiling slightly, for good measure, before cutting the feed.

She sits back in the chair, slumps back. Closes her eyes.

“Oddest audio phenomena I have ever seen,” Zarya’s voice says from the door way.

Mei jumps. Her skin crawls. She turns, grinning just a little sheepishly.

“You heard that?”

“Hard not to. It was a good show though. Very convincing.”

Mei chuckles, pushes the heel of her hand through her bangs. Her glasses go askew for a moment, throw Zarya into weird proportions.

“I am sure you think me terrible for lying to him.”

Zarya grins, shakes her head. Under the hoodie she is wearing her shoulders shift, roll. Her hands jammed in the pocket. Hiding the ace bandages wrapped around her fingers.

“He wants what is best for you. He wants to know you are doing what is best.” Zarya pauses. Her gaze seems to tremble, she glances away from Mei and down at the ground. “We all want what is best for you.”

She is blushing.

It is pink and healthy across her cheeks.

Mei knows, of course. Mei has known for months. But the matter needs to be handled with more gentle care than she has time for at the moment. Here at the ends of the earth there is no room for any sort of romance.

She sighs.

“If you didn’t approve,” Mei says, matter of fact, “you didn’t have to come. Bastion and I could have made do.”

Zarya has the decency to look chastened. Her shoulders fall. Her hands twist together in the pocket of the hoodie, a storm beneath the material, a writhing subconscious thing.

“I did not mean it like that. I simply meant that…that he is worried for you. And that I am. You have…not been downstairs yet. Wasn’t the whole point of returning here to–”

Zarya cuts herself off. Frowning. Glaring down at the floor between her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t…push.”

“I’m not mad. I’m just…we’re gonna be here for a while, you know, I’ll get to it. Eventually.” Mei swallows. Her throat clicks, a dry little catch in the motion. “How are your fingers?”

Zarya seems to brighten at that. Her hands emerge from her pockets. The bandages Mei had applied for good measure are still in place mostly. An edge flapping here or there. A little tattered from use.

“They feel much better. The cold normally does not bother at least home in Russia but…”

Mei nods, smiles when Zarya trails off. “But it’s colder here. I always manage to forget too.”

“Thank you again for helping me to wrap them. And for the lending of your gloves.”

“It was nothing. It is nothing. I brought extras so it’s…it’s really not a problem,” Mei says. She can feel her own blush, the spread of it across the skin of her cheeks. Warm and uncomfortable.

She doesn’t have the time to indulge this. Coming up here wasn’t about this. Them. The budding blossoming whatever it is.

Snow kills flowers.

Ice massacres new growth.

And that is what she is here for. Ice and snow and chilling wind.

Zarya lingers, awkward. The silence turns over between the two of them. Restless.

“I should let you get to work,” Zarya says, finally. Nodding slightly. “I’ve uhhh. Cleaned out a majority of the crew quarters if you…wanted to come back there.”

Mei glances behind her at the cot she tossed up the first day here. Tucked into her workspace. Away from all those things she remembers.

But Zarya looks so eager again, a hopeful little up-tilt to her chin.

And Mei cannot bear to be the one who breaks that optimism.

“Yeah,” she says. “Of course. I’ll…I’ll move my stuff over after dinner.”

Time enough to wrap her head around it.

She hopes.

–

“Which bunk was yours,” Zarya asks. She sounds genuinely curious and Mei knows she isn’t asking to hurt.

But the hurt is there regardless.

A coiling knot of anxiety at the hollow of her throat.

The rooms have hardly changed. Two bunks to a room, two space heaters, a terminal and two bookshelves. The blankets in the dorm Zarya and she are currently standing in are green.

This was not Mei’s room. It was Faulkner’s and Henson’s; the joker and the quiet one.

If Mei closes her eyes she can recall their faces. Like it was yesterday. A few months ago.

Faulkner’s eyes had been frozen over there at the end; a layer of permafrost turning them hard and glassy like marbles.

“Not here,” she says when Zarya looks at her. When she tips her head in question.

Mei holds out a finger, points down the hall

“Two more that way,” she says. “Gina and I had purple blankets.”

“Do you want to move your stuff down there?”

God, no, Mei wants to say. Jesus, anything but that.

Instead she shakes her head, forces a smile. “Here is fine,” she says. “There’s…less to…”

Zarya nods when Mei trails off. “Of course,” she says. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m always making it worse aren’t I?”

“Not on purpose. It’s sweet, really.”

“You think I’m sweet?”

Mei closes her eyes, smiles. It’s so cliche, talking about this here, now. The bunks are made, the space heaters are running again. It could almost be cozy and romantic. He blows her breath out through her teeth.

“Of course I do,” Mei says. She opens her eyes. Zarya is leaning against the wall. Not looking at her. Feigning nonchalance. The tips of her ears match her hair. “You’re probably one of the sweetest people I know, you know, Zarya.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to sound so disappointed about it.”

“I did not mean…”

“It’s okay.” Mei mirrors Zarya’s stance. She leans back against the wall, crosses her arms. Their elbows touch. Mei can tell from the instant stiffening of Zarya’s shoulders how aware of it the Russian woman is. Sensitive to every brush, every accidental contact.

“I never really thanked you properly, for…for coming up here with me. For dropping everything to…”

“There was very little to drop.”

“Still though. You left it all for a bunch of…of ice and snow and…” Mei does not say death, not matter how desperately her tongue aches to. The letters, already forming across it.

“And you,” Zarya provides. Effectively stalling Mei’s rather dark thoughts. “I mostly came here for you. Would be boring, no, with only the Omnic for company?”

It’s a joke.

Maybe a little too close to home, considering Zarya’s stance on Omnics. But Mei recognizes the shapes and forms and warmth of Zarya’s joking tone.

“Right,” Mei says. Her arm drops. Zarya’s copies the motion. For a brief second their fingers touch. A mistake. God, oh God this is such a mistake.

There is no room for this.

There is no time.

Mei turns away. Her fingers trip up Zarya’s arm to her elbow, to the swell of her bicep, strong and lean within the sleeve of the hoodie.

A thank you.

Mei can frame it as a thank you; selfish as that is. Cruel as it may be.

A proper thank you.

And then they can be over it.

Mei’s feet shift, bringing her closer, just a little closer. Zarya’s eyes are huge, her mouth an open little questioning o.

“I just–” Mei begins to say.

Except she never finishes.

Bastion, beeping and whooping and trilling busts into the room. Their joints flex and creak and clank.

And the moment is broken.

Mei looks away, steps back.

Her stuff is in the hall, she turns to retrieve it. A sleeping bag. Her personal computer. Snowball. She places her little robot down on the desk, begins hooking him to the terminal there. Bastion, unaware of the complexity of the moment, joins her. Doots and beeps and whistles at Snowball.

And Zarya watches.

Says nothing.

Her fingers are touching her own chin. Her pointer brushes her lips.

They’re going to have to talk about this eventually. Neither of them can keep it up like this. Neither of them should have to.

–

But of course, wanting to talk about it and actually talking about it, those are two very different things. And Zarya for her part, seems intent on never broaching the topic again.

Skittish when she and Mei are in the same room. Shy and awkward and bumbling when they talk. She manages to mangle an automated temperature gauge that she and Mei are putting up the first time Mei hints at the topic–two days later. She only just manages not to drop and smash a computer she is carrying the second time.

Mei finds it both endearingly cute and frustratingly unhelpful.

Bastion continues on as always. Steady.

The ghosts of things Mei remembers also clings. Lingering. Calling to her every time she happens past the hanger where the cryo-pods are stored.

Morgan’s skin gone blue. Henson’s lips white and gleaming with frostbite.

She pauses in her walk across the frozen campus.

Her fingers are sweating in her gloves. Zarya is off cooking. Bastion is…wherever it is that Bastion goes to when not assisting with the various tests Mei performs.

Mei stares up at the building. The open, garage-like front of it.

This is where they found her. Kneeling here in the snow when she came to. No trace of it now, it’s been too long, too many snowstorms have erased the surface where she sank to the ground and looked on at the crew extracting her friends.

Black fingers. Clothes like cardboard, stiff with crystals.

Mei sighs.

She enters the building.

It is far past time to.

Far, far past.

–

She’s half in the air duct down in the labs when Zarya finds her. Concern written all over her face. Fear in the turn of her lips, apprehension in the tightness around her eyes.

“What are you doing down here?” Zarya asks. “The Omnic and I have been…”

“Did I worry you?” Mei asks. She pushes herself to standing, grabs the duct cover from where she had leaned it up against the wall. Before she can go to secure it however, Zarya is there, taking it from her, helping. “You don’t have to do that, you know?”

“Is the least I can do. You and the Omnic handle the science. The manual stuff, I can handle that.”

“That’s selling yourself awfully short.”

Zarya goes pink again. It’s too easy to work her up. To rattle the cage of her sensibilities.

Mei grins. “So you and Bastion were both worried.”

Zarya palms the back of her head. She is still wearing the gloves Mei had given her. There is a layer of snow dusting that hasn’t melted from her hair yet. Dotted across her shoulders.

“You were outside?” Mei asks. She reaches forward, brushes the snow with her fingertips. Her bare fingers. The liquid is shockingly cool. Mei always manages to forget.

Zarya stiffens only a little at the touch. She bites her lips. “You have been gone for hours.”

Mei makes a face. She’s been working. Setting up the feeds and recording stations that should have been put up when they got here almost a week ago. Fixing the different cables that have gone rotten with frost.

“It was an hour maybe,” she says.

“More like four? You missed dinner. I have put half away in the commissary for you.”

“That’s not–” possible, Mei wants to say. But before the word has left her mouth, her stomach lets out a grumble. Her data-pad is where she left it, sitting atop her coat and gloves. Near the door. Well away from the pods.

Mei picks it up with her back to them. She tries to make the gesture seem unimportant, but Zarya’s eyes tighten.

And of course, Zarya is right.

Five and a half hours. And she’d been so absorbed in what she was doing she hadn’t even really realized it at all.

“Mei,” Zarya begins. Her voice trails off. Her mouth closes. “You have to take care of yourself,” she says.

“I am. I do.” Mei’s fingers curl around her data-pad. Her nails scratch against the plastic protective cover.

“Not eating is–”

“It was this one time. I just…lost track.”

“Did you come here to die?” Zarya asks. She isn’t looking at the floor, her gaze bores into Mei’s. Utterly unbreakable.

Mei doesn’t scoff; it’s a close thing, but she doesn’t. “No,” she says. “I came here to finish my work. To…”

To apologize.

Because she is the one who lived.

And she no idea how to reconcile that.

What to do to honor the men and women who didn’t die for her, but just died because they picked the wrong pods. There had been no drawing of straws. There had been no arguments or squabbles. Everyone had picked a pod.

And everyones’ but Mei’s had failed.

Mei looks over her shoulder.

The unit that had saved her life, the ones that had been a casket for the others, loom behind her.

Zarya has stepped closer. The first contact she has initiated since that moment in the dorms. Her gloved fingers brush down Mei’s bare arm.

“It was not your fault,” Zarya says.

“I know.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“I know that,” Mei says. “I know. I know.”

“You’re a good person. You are brave and everyone in Overwatch is so proud of you.”

Mei shrugs. She lets herself sort of lean into Zarya’s form.

“I’m just lucky,” Mei says. “It could have been anyone. I’m not brave. I just…” Mei swallows. Zarya’s hand has slid to her shoulder. Her fingers brushing the strap of Mei’s tank.

“I miss them,” Mei says. The first time she has admitted it. It feels weird, saying it out loud. Like stripping something bare, skin to frozen metal, tearing away the top layer. “I really, really miss them. And I just. I can’t help thinking that if it had been…Henson or Faulkner or Muniez who had survived. Would they be–that is they wouldn’t be wasting so much–”

Zarya’s hands move to cup her chin, Zarya’s gloved fingers against her pulse point.

Zarya’s lips against her own.

Cold at the edges. From being out in the snow. Searching for Mei, thinking her dead.

Mei’s fingers twitch at her sides.

Melted snow trickles down her neck.

Every sensation. She is hyper aware of all of it. Zarya’s lips, the firm pressure of them; warming up from leeching Mei’s body heat.

And Mei unresponsive. Unresponsive.

It takes a second.

And then Zarya shrinks back. Not even pink now, her cheeks are fully red. Her eyes go wide.

“I’m sorry,” she says, hastily, before Mei has even opened her mouth. “I’m sorry. I just. I thought that. Survivor’s guilt. I know how lonely that can be and I–I am not sorry that you lived. That they didn’t is a tragedy but…it is not your tragedy. You lived and I’m sorry but I’m so, so happy that you did.”

Harsh, her words come off harsh. Mei closes her eyes. She sees the good place Zarya is coming from. The road paved with pure and sentimental intentions.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Mei says. “They were my friends.”

Zarya looks away. “During the war,” she says. “That is I…I have lost friends too, Mei. And I know how it feels to be the one to keep going. And maybe you don’t see it, and maybe it seems cruel, but I’m glad it was you. I’m glad you lived and that I lived to…to meet each other.”

Desperate sentimentality.

Mei doesn’t know what to do in the face of such honesty.

“You lost people too?” She asks. A stupid question. Zarya was a soldier and that is what soldiers do.

Zarya nods.

“Why didn’t I know that before? About your friends?” Mei asks.

“I do not talk about it much. And I…it would not have been fair, placing that much more of a burden on you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a burden. I like knowing about your past. I like that you’d trust me with it.”

Mei sighs. She steps closer, holds her hand out. Almost reluctantly, Zarya takes it. Palm to palm. Mei interlocks their fingers.

Zarya looks down and back up. She bites her lip. But she doesn’t move her hand away. She does the opposite in fact, squeezes gently. Fitting them together slightly more snug.

“I would trust you with my life,” Zarya says. Without hesitation. Escaped from her. Her expression shifts again, embarrassment flooding across her face. She covers her eyes with the hand not holding Mei’s.

Mei chuckles. She uses her grip on Zarya to tug her in again.

The height difference makes it difficult. But Mei stands up on her toes and she makes do. Her lips touch Zarya’s chin before landing on her bottom lip.

The kiss lasts a second only, shorter than the first. Mei drops back down, lets her weight settle. She grins.

���Are you sure about this?” Zarya asks. She sounds meek, bashful. Words not easily associated with her.

“You said it yourself. Survivor’s guilt. I never thought about it like that,” Mei shrugs. She looks over at the pods, she makes herself. “They wouldn’t want me to keep hesitating. To keep. Dwelling on this. I need to…to finish the set ups for the remote interfacing. And then I’m going back.”

“Back to China?”

Mei shakes her head. “Overwatch. They still will need me. I can study climate anywhere pretty much with Snowball. And I…that is if you…”

Zarya looks at her. There is an upturn at the corner of her mouth, a twitching threat of a smile. But Mei needs to ask it. She has to.

Pushing her heel through that first thick, unyielding layer of ice.

“If you would come with me, I would be glad for the company.”

Zarya does smile. She slides her free hand across the back of her neck. “And the Omnic,” she says, “as your research assistant.”

“You would want Bastion with us?”

“The machine is not as bad as I thought it would be. I have…grown somewhat accustomed to having it around.”

“If you’re sure about it, then yes. Of course,” Mei says. “The three of us.”

Her hand squeezes around Zarya’s. Interlaced. There is heat, low in her stomach. A turning over like happiness in her throat.

A thawing.

She hadn’t even realized she’d needed it.

Zarya leans down and kisses her again. Soft and simple. Mei’s eyes flutter shut. Her hand cups Zarya’s cheek.

Oh, oh, how she had needed it.

[fineillsignup]

If You Believe In Magic (KakaSaku, Rated T for now)

@meliss-cake​ made this beautiful thing right here:

from here, reposted with permission for context, please go check out the other “magician” KakaSaku art

And it inspired me to write a thing which was (everyone say it with me now) supposed to be a one-shot but. There are no one-shots in yunyu land. There is only Zuul.

Focus, Sakura. There is an actual and literal winged man, possibly a fairy or demon, standing in your condo. Who speaks Japanese. You need back-up, and also confirmation that you are not experiencing a psychotic break.

If You Believe In Magic on AO3

or read below :3

Sakura picked up her smartphone and mimed throwing it, then visualized it shattering against the wall of her condo into a thousand pieces. She had an excellent imagination and this technique allowed her to indulge her terrible temper without constant property damage.

She set the phone back down, sighed, and tried to draw the mystery kanji from the book into the input reader again.

“Why do you care whether you have the right words anyway, Forehead?” Her roommate Inocencia said. “It’s not like anyone in the audience will notice or care. By the way, your roots are showing.”

Sakura jerked up to look at the mirror and then scowled as Ino began to cackle. “Don’t scare me like that! I have a show tonight!”

Ino perked up at that. “What, really? Is this your show, your big break?! Why didn’t you tell me?! Geez I’m gonna have to call Sai and cancel—”

“No, it’s just the Amazing Ninja Magic Show again,” she said with a sigh. “But I still need to have my pink hair perfect. You know how particular Sasuke is about his colour coordination.”

Ino huffed. “Has Special Sauce found himself a new blonde yet to replace me?”

“No, he’s still looking. Every girl who tries out is either ‘too haole’ or ‘not blonde enough’, oh my God. I don’t think he even listens to the words coming out of his mouth sometimes.” Sakura shook her head and tried to draw the kanji again.

“Does he know you’re developing your own show?”

“Yes he does and he thinks it’s a waste of time.” She bit her lip. “Let’s not talk about him. The point is, I want this to be fusion, but authentic details are what sell the fusion. And don’t forget how many Japanese tourists come to the shows. I don’t want them snickering over my crappy fake Japanese.”

“Don’t you always say your Japanese sucks though?”

“Do you believe in me or not, Ino?!”

Ino waved her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! Geez. Call Ramen-boy if you want someone to tell you that you can do anything you put your mind to. I’ll probably be home before you leave for the show, but just in case, break a leg. If you sabotage his shuriken trick so that Sasuke takes one in his dopey red eyes, I’ll pay your bail.”

Sakura snickered despite herself. “He got a new contact design, did I tell you? Trying to one-up his brother again. I admit it’s a really cool design but you can’t see them even from the front row so I don’t know what the point is.”

“Oh my God, what did I ever see in him. What do you still see in him, Sakura?” She waved her hand. “Don’t try to convince me, I’m gonna be late to class. When you hit the big time you can book me for your European tour. Adieu.”

“Sayonara,” Sakura retorted, then sighed to herself as Ino left. Well, at least her Japanese pronunciation was on point.

It was Saturday morning, and ordinarily she’d still be sleeping off a Friday night show, but today she had risen ungodly early to check out an estate sale. A certain Mr. Fujiwara had died with his affairs in a hell of a tangle. In fact, there were actually a few estate sales going on at the same time, with various chunks and bits of his possessions. She had gotten a tip from a friend that worked for an auction house that the deceased had a great interest in the Japanese occult, and that with the hubbub and confusion surrounding the directions for disposing of them, this particular sale was happening last minute and mostly unadvertised. Therefore, Sakura might be able to pick up some real bargains to use as props in her stage show.

If she ever got to have her own magic show, beyond local amateur nights.

“Real bargains” were still mostly out of her price range, but she had picked up a few things, and one of them was this neat nineteenth century book of onmyoudou, a Japanese occult practice of divination and magical elements, particularly yin and yang. This particular volume was apparently about various spirits, and had marvellous hand-painted illustrations of gods, ghosts, demons, monsters, and all sorts of other paranormal beings, as well as what appeared to be instructions for dealing with them, avoiding them, inviting them, banishing them, identifying them, etc.

The illustration for this particular incantation balanced grotesque and crowded detail with sweeping blank space in a classic asymmetric way. At first glance it was an ordinary rural scene: a rice field, with a mountain in the distance. In the field, on the same side as the mountain, was a scarecrow, but it did not appear to be doing its job, as not only was a bird perched on it, but its “legs” were surrounded by dogs. Upon closer examination, however, the birds, the dogs, and even the scarecrow itself appeared to have some more than natural power to them. The wide, white wings of an overlarge bird fanned above the scarecrow’s head like a strange crown. The expressions of the dogs seemed too wise, uncannily human, with postures a bit like trained circus dogs. What at first glance she had thought was meant to be a pile of dirt or a dark background behind everything was actually another dog of monstrous size and a baleful expression.

Not to mention that instead of the friendly henohenomoji face she had expected, the face was blank except for a rip where the left eye should be. Disturbing.

Finally, she turned all the kanji into the correct kana. At least, into what she hoped were the correct kana for the kanji. Why did kanji have to have multiple readings, anyway?

Sakura tapped the back of her pen on the notebook page, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and reached for a gunbai war fan. She had picked up a few of them, because they made very effective wands for a stage show, even better at catching and redirecting the audience’s attention than a regular wand. Sakura quite liked wands to begin with, so she had indulged.

This one had a diamond pattern on it, and she practiced a few movements with it as she gave the text a try.

When she finished the last word, Sakura got an enormous shock. A literal shock.

The fan in her hands convulsed with electricity, spasming her muscles so that she was unable to open her hand and release it. The lights went out and there was an enormous boom like thunder. Just the lights going out shouldn’t have plunged everything into darkness, but it did, except for the light from the power arcing around her body. After an initial horrible pain she felt absolutely nothing for about ten very long seconds, during which she had enough time to realize that she had been electrocuted—somehow—and it didn’t matter how because clearly her heart had been stopped and oh no oh no this must be the last faint few seconds of oxygen in her brain and she was dying she was about to die and this is how to feels to die and—

The lights came back on and the fan fell out of her hand onto her dining room table, where it made a very ordinary clattering sound before it became still.

Sakura took a couple of gasping breaths and ran her hand through her hair. It wasn’t singed, but it was all fluffed out. She turned to check herself in the mirror.

She was not alone at the table anymore.

Where Ino had been sitting not long before, there was now a man, standing on the chair, stock still.

Well. Was it a man? It wasn’t a woman—Sakura was very sure of that—but he somehow didn’t seem like a man either… not a human man, at least. The enormous silver wings sprouting from his back, the feathery tip of the right one threatening to knock brick-a-brack off the side table, weren’t the only reason for that either. One eye, with an angry red scar bisecting it, was closed. The other was dark and burning like charcoal. He was tall, so standing on a chair, his head nearly hit the ceiling, and around his head like a halo was a great deal of silver hair. Sakura stared up at him wide-eyed.

The silver-haired man looked down at Sakura and reeled off a very dramatic-sounding monologue in, unfortunately, Japanese. She continued staring at him in bewilderment.

He looked at her again, frowned, and repeated part of what he had said, a bit slower. Sakura could just about recognize the structure of what he was saying (prepositions and conjugations and so on), but basically nothing of the content.

“Baka ja nai no?” He finally said, not without amusement. She understood that one. You’re an idiot, huh?

Sakura bristled at that. “I’m not an idiot! I…” She swallowed. She’d lived in Honolulu all her life, so she knew exactly the phrase to reel off from countless run-ins with Japanese tourists. “Gomen nasai, nihongo ga sukoshidake hanashimasu!” I’m sorry, I only speak a little Japanese!

“Omae no namae, nan to iu no da?”  What’s your name, but she knew enough Japanese to know what his pronoun choice meant. Hmph. Apparently he was a rude mysterious winged man.

She opened her mouth to say it, then abruptly shut it again. Wait. She wasn’t supposed to give fairies her real name, right? She vaguely remembered that from fairy tales. Was it the same in Japan? Better not to risk it.

But being rude to fairies also made them upset, right? That part she was definitely sure would be the same in Japan.

“Anata no namae… ichi,” she said, pointing to him, then to herself and adding. “Ni.” An attempt, at least, at saying “your name first, mine second.”

He seemed amused. “Kakashi,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Kakashi,” she repeated. “Sakura desu.”

Now that amused him very much, and she could see how he was looking at her pink hair. She bit her lip crossly, incensed by her inability to tell him exactly what she thought. She blew out a breath. Focus, Sakura. There is an actual and literal winged man, possibly a fairy or demon, standing in your condo. Who speaks Japanese. You need back-up, and also confirmation that you are not experiencing a psychotic break.

“Koko de matte kudasai,” she said firmly, please wait here, another well-used phrase whenever she went to fetch an actual Japanese speaker. But who was she going to get? Not her parents, for sure…

“Hai, hai,” he said lazily with a smirk as she hurriedly gathered together her purse and put on her sandals.

Just then her phone buzzed. She looked down and read the text from notifications. “Is something up with Sasuke? He’s not answering my texts. My flight got in early and he was supposed to pick me up.”

———

“If I’m crazy, you’ll forget this ever happened, right?” she said, gripping the steering wheel tightly as she drove them away from the airport.

Itachi, sitting in the passenger seat, looked exhausted, but he always looked exhausted. “If I thought you were crazy, I would not get into a car you were driving.”

She darted a glance at him. He was neatly folding his coat to place in his lap with precise, elegant movements. “When I said a man suddenly appeared in my condo while I was practicing, I didn’t mean an intruder.”

“So I presumed,” he said. “I would think you would have called the police.”

“He suddenly appeared.” She glanced at him again. “And… when I said he looked odd…”

His well-manicured hands were redoing his ponytail. “Yes?”

“He had wings.” Sakura kept her eyes on the road this time, but waited for his polite, cultured voice to calmly request her to pull over and let him out.

Instead, there was silence. It lasted about five minutes before she darted a look at him again. Itachi was simply looking out the window.

“No comment?” she pressed.

“Ah, well, I thought it might be something like that when you mentioned you went to the Fujiwara estate sale,” he said. “That whole thing was handled abominably… You haven’t mentioned anything to my brother, have you?”

“No…”

“Good. I’d rather he not get involved. He doesn’t have the kind of personality that knows where to stop, you know.” Itachi sighed. “Better he stick with his little stage show…”

“I think I am going crazy,” she muttered.

He smiled slightly at her. “I’m sorry. It goes against my training to say much. I know getting mixed up with youkai must be overwhelming.”

“Youkai? Like Inuyasha?!”

“What is that?”

“Uh… it’s a Japanese cartoon.”

“Ah. Possibly. In any event, don’t be too worried, Sakura.”

“Don’t be too worried?! You’re telling me I have a Japanese demon in my condo and I shouldn’t be worried?”

“Well. Not too worried. If you had summoned something really harmful, you wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

“How reassuring!”

“Demon isn’t the right word either,” he said. “Youkai are simply another form of intelligent life, one that generally avoids humans nowadays. Almost all the human eating spirits are extinct.”

“Almost?!”

He sighed. “I see I am making things worse.”

“How do you know about all this? Aren’t you just a stage magician too?”

“Akatsuki is kind of a front,” he said vaguely. “So you weren’t able to communicate with him at all?”

“Well, he said his name was Kakashi. And I told him I was Sakura. Oh God, I didn’t like, give him my eternal soul or something when I told him my name, did I?!”

“No,” he said, but he sounded distracted, and when she glanced over at him, his eyes were closed and lips slightly pursed.

Her mind reeled back temporarily. “Wait a minute, the most popular show in Vegas is a front?! A front for what?”

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“What, you could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” She said the cliche line lightly, waiting for him to laugh, but there was no laughter in the car but her own, slightly hysterical giggle.

The rest of the short ride to her condo was silent. This is the craziest dream I’ve ever had, she told herself repeatedly as she locked her car. The wheels of Itachi’s little roll-aboard suitcase made the only noise as they walked to the elevator.

She unlocked her door and opened it, but the winged man wasn’t immediately visible at the dining table. Itachi stepped around and past her, pulling off his shoes swiftly and heading in. “Itachi—wait—” Sakura hurried to get her own sandals off and chase him into her bedroom.

The winged man was lying on his stomach on her bed, chin propped on his palm, reading one of the erotic romances she hid in a box in her closet. He looked up at them and made a little wave. “Yo.”

Itachi bowed and began, “Kuebiko-sama—” but Sakura cut him off.

“Where did you get that?!” she demanded. “That is private! You were digging in my things? What are you even doing reading that if you can’t understand English?”

The spirit grinned, his eyes crinkling into happy half moons.

“Oh my God,” Sakura said, incensed, “You do understand English! Why didn’t you say something?”

“This way is funnier,” he said mildly. “And look at what an interesting consequence it has led to already. I haven’t dealt with an Uchiha for a while.” When he said that, he opened the scarred eye, revealing a swirling pattern of black and red. Sakura stared at it transfixed.

“Kuebiko-sama—” Itachi tried again. This time the spirit cut him off.

“She knows me as Kakashi,” he said.

“Is that a fake name? Is Kuebiko your real one?”

Itachi raised himself out of his bow and elbowed Sakura in the ribs, jolting her into remembering that despite her anger at Kakashi’s delving into her box of guilty pleasures, he was not exactly someone she should be scolding.

But Kakashi spoke up cheerfully. “Maa, neither of them are fake names, Sakura. You know, my first impression of you was… not good… but I think I’m going to like you very much.”

[badly-drawn-piplup]

Healer Chapter Six

I made a terrible mistake. In the middle of my restless night, a rustling could be heard nearby. The others were asleep, save for a few keeping watch. That fact did not ease the dread I felt.

″Everything will be alright. That rustling could be anything. One of us, a creature, the wind, anything.″

I repeated those words to myself in the softest whisper I can muster, taking care not to wake up the soldier sleeping next to me. I closed my eyes. After mouthing the same assuring words, I tried to fall asleep.

With a jolt, I awoke. My chest ached from all the hyperventilating. The labored breathing, heaving forward and back. I witnessed a murder before my eyes. There was no tent, not anymore. I was in shadowed space, the environment shaping around me. Before long, I knew where I was: the temple I was held in years ago. My father standing before me in his suit of armor. He was no longer a soldier, but his stubborn nature refused to let him take it off.

″You should have healed me when you had the chance!″ He scowled, his voice the harshest bark I ever heard from him. Through his chest was a long blade, blood dripping from both the tip of the blade, the gaping hole in his chest, and his mouth. Yet his words were all the more clear.

Standing next to him were two demons, one of them held the blade that was pierced through my father, the other doing nothing. Nothing at all but standing there. In my eyes, that was a worse offense than being the killer.

″Say something! Do something! Why are you just standing there?″ I yelled to the demon.

My father raised his voice further, surrounding the halls.

″She can't heal me! You can!″

His anger, whether or not uncharacteristic, shook me to the core. I wanted to scream, cover my eyes and ears. My hands betrayed me; they didn't even try to reach out. My eyes, too, would not obey. They remained wide open, watching him stabbed. Over and over and over and –

″Hey?″ I heard, but not from any of the figures in the temple. The temple disappeared. Against my shoulder was someone's hand. I turned my head, all ready to hit whoever dared lay a hand on me.

It was the soldier who slept in the tent with me. My hand was raised in the air, but I managed to stop myself.

″Are you okay?″ She asked.

I lowered my hand and placed it against my chest. My breathing slowed back down. With a forced smile, I answered her.

″Yeah, it's just something that happens. Bad dreams. I'm used to it, though.″

″Aye. Not good for someone so young to be having.″

She laid back down and turned to the side, facing away from me.

I tried to lay back down as well. Worry struck me, however, when I heard the rustling outside grow louder.

I nudged her.

″How likely are we to be ambushed?″ I asked.

″We have people outside keeping watch,″ she grumbled, annoyed that I would even suggest such a thing.

We moved forward that morning. I stood in the back, surrounded by those poised with their shields. Birds flew out from forest clearings. Few things could be seen while my vision was obscured by these large figures and their weapons. Aside from the marching and the occasional birds flapping their wings and shaking the branches, there was scarce a sound.

So ill fitting, I thought. There should be trumpets. Some battle music. Something to get the blood flowing.

Blood was already flowing. Such thoughts were dense. They were terrible liars. It wasn't motivation that I needed; It was a distraction.

Screams shot forth.

″It begins!″ One of them yelled. Others yelled in response, charging into battle against an unknown foe. I recall hearing it was from our neighboring kingdom, but I had never seen our enemy in the flesh. They likely looked a little like us. Maybe a little different. This was a war. I had to tell myself that I would see people that in any other circumstances I might have befriended.

″Protect our healer!″ Rialthe called as I ran to the aid of the screech of a soldier who I could only assume was in pain.

When I ran, something pushed past the rows of soldiers and lunged forth. Metal hit my body, bruising my sides. Clouds of dirt formed, covering my back as I fell. I looked up to see what had hit me.

What I saw was not human, or at least not one that I was accustomed to; it wore bronze armor, something that must have belonged to the enemy kingdom, but the armor was all twisted up and some of it looked like it was lodged in its body. It looked less like it was wearing hard metal and more like tinfoil. Both the arms and legs of the creature were green, rotting flesh became apparent. Tendons hung out and were covered in small spikes. They looked more like thorns. The limbs themselves looked less like limbs and more of a series of vines, only held together by large chunks of meat.

The thing wore no helmet, having no need. It definitely had features of a human head, but it was so stretched out, as if to be a saggy lump of clay. Covering the face was a series of thorns, pock marks making up whatever the thorns didn't cover. The soldier, if I could even call it that, and not a monster, had eyes bulging out, and its jaw widened to such an effect that I was sure it would swallow me whole.

Was this it? Was I about to die before healing anyone on the battlefield?

Even if I could be relieved that I might no longer carry such a responsibility, I couldn't help but feel like my whole being was leaving my body as I went cold. Everything evaporated from me. I felt as if I would float over my body and see that it was not me, but a statue made to look like me, frozen in time.

Red bolts shot into the creature's side and back, knocking the creature off of me.

″God damn it!″ Rialthe shouted. ″What did I tell you guys?″

Good. She had my back. I looked over to her, the one who shot the arrows at the beast.

Her face was not all cheery like I had seen of her before. It said one thing and one thing only: move.

It started as a crawl, but I did not want to wait to see if that creature would move again. I went on all fours before picking myself up, hunched over, making hoarse breaths. When I saw the soldier that I wanted to help in the first place, I got to my knees. Both hands shook, and I could only use one to heal, the other covering my mouth. The sight of so many gashes and mangled flesh made me want to throw up on the spot. Swirling mixtures of red, purple, green, and brown made up a stew that my eyes refused to digest.

I closed them and pressed my free hand over each wound. An unpleasant squish could be felt, but I had to endure. Each wound closed and with each repair, I could feel what little strength I had leave me. When I opened my eyes, I saw the soldier pick himself back to his feat and charge back into battle. I let out a sigh of relief.

The scene played out with each soldier blocking the attack of these abominations and striking back with full force. Swords being shoved into skulls, heads ripped off and thrown off into the air. There's no sympathy to be had, I told myself. Those things simply aren't human.

I watched as one's arm transformed into a series of blades. There was no explanation I could give other than what it looked like: the blades never being created from the flesh but rather the flesh retracting to reveal the blades that lie within. All I could do was watch, at least during the period in which I saw said blades dig into the chest of one of the soldiers. The soldier turned around. I was unaware whether or not he saw me, but for a moment I was certain he had the face of my father.

I winced. It was playing out all over again. Was I just going to let this happen?

No. I won't.

But lightning must have struck me somewhere. My legs took a step back rather than a step forward. I tried looking away, but the images permeated. I don't know how I managed, but before I could compose myself I found my hand on the back of the soldier. I must have gone numb; tips of the blades caught the palm of my hand, scraping it.

There was still a pulse, I noticed, even after the creature drew the blades away. Using as much of my weight as I could, I held the soldier up and somehow found myself still able to heal the soldier. I had no time to be amazed at my own strength, as I was trying to support the both of us. He wheezed and coughed blood, but with an awkward swing, sliced the creature in half.

He wobbled to and fro. I leaped out of the way before he fell. Whether or not he would die after all, I could no longer muster a thought. I passed out beside the person I had saved.

Right before the battle, Rialthe caught me outside my tent. I was having cooked sausage in front of a campfire, something I wasn't used to eating. Not to say I didn't like it, it was delicious, but I had a feeling it would be an acquired taste.

″Beryle tells me you had trouble sleeping,″ she brought up.

″Oh, is that her name?″ I asked, seeing if I could change the subject. She wasn't swayed.

″Anything you would like to tell me?″

″Yeah,″ I mentioned. ″She snores!″

Rialthe laughed. ″That may be true, but you'll find all of us do.″

I didn't know how to take that information, but I sunk my head low. I didn't know how perceptive she was but I was telling lie after lie each encounter I had with her.

She sat down next to me and placed her hand on my back. I straightened up and scowled.

″What do you think you're doing?″

She let go. ″I'm sorry. You don't like being touched?″

″That's not it,″ I shook my head. ″But you're still a stranger and, and, and...it was so sudden!″

She chuckled. ″That's true. I apologize.″

I refused to change my tone. I just turned away from her, crossed my arms, and said ″good″.

She took a sip from her mug. Every now and then I would steal glances, to which she would smile and occasionally make a slurp, but otherwise stay silent.

I took a deep breath. I had trouble dealing with silence. She was still sitting next to me, so surely she had something more to say.

″I'm not sure how much use I can be...″ I spoke up.

She set her mug down on the ground and wiped her mouth.

″I'll be honest, we can go on without you.″

I lowered my head. Maybe that's something I wanted to hear, but it stung.

″With you by our side, we have a much greater chance of survival. Many of the soldiers that come to the infirmary are already close to death. Some of them already dead.″

She didn't have to tell me that. I worked there. I already knew.

″Even if you only heal one or two of us in the midst of battle, it's much better than what you were doing back at the castle,″ she added. ″But, we can go on without you. We have a medic on staff. We have bandages, anesthesia, and drugs.″

″So what you're saying is you can make do without me?″

″What I'm saying,″ she corrected. ″Is that your safety is just as important as ours. If you don't think you can handle this, I'll personally take you back to the castle, no questions asked.″

″Hey, didn't we have this conversation at least twice already? I already told you I'm in!″ I reassured her. Or myself.

″This time's different, kid. After everyone's ready, we'll be heading out. We want to be prepared against the enemy before they have a chance to strike us. If you don't want to leave now, we won't be able to bring you back for at least another few days.″

When she told me that, I should have let go of my pride and admitted that I wanted to go back.

I awoke in my sleeping bag right outside the bonfire circle where soldiers were huddled up. I don't recall any night terrors, but there was a hope that what I saw on the battlefield was one.

I rubbed my eyes and walked over. Rialthe noticed me heading toward the circle and got up.

″Hey, how are you feeling?″ She asked.

″Exhausted,″ I yawned.

″Oh yeah, I bet.″

We walked around while the others had their own conversations around the campfire. Despite the desert around us, we made our way into a small forest area where a pool of water lay. I undressed and made my way in. She dipped her feet, but stayed in the grass.

″This feels nice,″ I sighed. The water was still and warm.

Rialthe sat down. She sighed as well, but it conveyed the opposite feeling.

″We should have been more careful with you back there,″ she muttered.

″Huh?″

″You could have been seriously hurt,″ she raised her voice.

″Oh, well, I'm fine,″ I dismissed.

″Are you?″

I shook my head. I couldn't believe I was about to admit something. ″No. What were those things?″

″Mutations. Former soldiers infused with blood of demons.″

″Demons? I thought those didn't exist.″

″Weren't you around a few years back when the neighboring kingdom invaded with soldiers possessed by demons?″ She asked, but before I could speak up, stopped herself. ″No, I guess you probably didn't hear about that.″

″I might have heard some commotion, but wasn't sure what was going on.″

″That might be for the best. Things have really changed.″

She left me to myself. Moments passed and I watched the sun set. It wasn't until the sky turned darker that I heard someone running toward me.

Please don't be one of those demon mutations, I thought.

Rialthe entered the clearing.

″Don't mean to barge in, but one of our soldiers is dying!″ She panicked.

″Want me to try to heal them?″ I asked.

She shook her head. ″No. Just comfort her until it's her time.″

I wasn't much of a doctor or a nurse. My job may require me to be by someone's side in painful times, but I wasn't known for my bedside manner. Ann would have backed me up on that one and we weren't the type to agree on anything. I wonder what she was up to back at the castle. She must have been overjoyed when she found out I wasn't there.

″I'll see what I can do,″ I told her.

In the tent lay a woman in her 40s with purple hair and a ponytail off to one side. She was running a high fever, and I didn't recall seeing her in the midst of battle. I wasn't so sure what the big deal was.

″I can probably cure you of your fever...″ I muttered.

She coughed. ″Don't,″ she spoke, her voice hoarse.

″Why not?″

″I'm not what I used to be. Even without a fever, I've been sick for years now.″ Didn't she know that I could cure illnesses as well? I wasn't one to boast about my abilities, far from it seeing how limited I was, but she was just being stubborn.

″I can probably...″ I began, but she put a finger up to my mouth. I leaned back, not wanting her to touch me.

″I'm not fit for fighting. I will die tonight, the gods have already told me so.″

I wanted to sneer and say ″what gods?″ but I refrained myself.

″There is but one thing I want from you before I go,″ she groaned.

″What might that be?″

″I am survived by my son. Make sure no harm comes to him.″

He was probably back at the castle. If she was going to make this tent her death bed, by all means, I would humor her. ″Do you want me to go back and watch over him?″

″No...he ran off to a temple, not far from here.″

Oh, no. This is not what I signed up for.

″How do you know he's there?″

″I saw it in a dream. He believes there to be treasure there. Find him, make sure no harm comes to him.″

I walked out in a huff, not about to listen to another word. No way. There is no way I'm going back there.

Rialthe saw me storm out. ″How did it go?″

″She's gone. Nothing I can do,″ I responded through gritted teeth.